


i brought my hell to you

by americangrunge



Category: Love Island (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Drinking, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, I Swear A Lot, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Not Safe for MK, Not Wholly Safe for Henrik Stans Either, Shoutout Taylor Swift, This Is Basically A Giant 'Folklore' Albumfic, Unrequited Crush, small mentions of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28876395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americangrunge/pseuds/americangrunge
Summary: Bobby’s in awe of her when she’s like this, raw and real and everything the public rarely gets to see. Well, he’s in awe of her all the time. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because he can’t write sad songs anymore. He just writes about being in love because he is. He’s in love with someone who doesn’t have a clue, despite his many hints and all her jokes about how great he is at writing these stupid love songs.---Or, the one where Nicola Jordan is one of the biggest pop stars in the world, Chelsea is her effervescent assistant, Hope is her no-nonsense manager, Lottie is her hair & makeup artist-turned-best friend with an unrequited crush of her own, and Bobby is in way over his head.
Relationships: Bobby McKenzie/Main Character (Love Island)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 37





	i brought my hell to you

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it's finally here. I can't believe it. There's so much I want to say that I know I'm going to forget.
> 
> I started writing this in July of 2020 after sitting on the idea for almost a year. I have no idea how it turned into 37,000+ words and 75 pages, but here it is: the long-awaited Musician AU that has taken over my life for the last six months.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who beta'd it along the way: Sarah, Margot, MK, Lauren, Becca, and a million others I'm probably forgetting. Thank you to the Discord for always being supportive and helpful, even when I ignored all of your advice to turn this into a chaptered fic. Thank you to all the artists I stole lyrics from along the way (all of which you can find on the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/56FsnBiMfaFircYBoK3Zry)).
> 
> Thank you to _you_ if you decide to read this. I know it's a monster and I know you don't have to, so it means a lot that you would.

**SLIDESHOW: ‘Heartbroken’ Nicola Jordan steps out for first time since split from cheating fiancé** **  
**_By Emily Smith, Daily Mail Staff_ | 6 January 2020

* * *

Venti.

Black, two sugars.

Bobby watches her take a cautious sip, a pair of Fendi sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, helping to keep a few stray curls out of her eyes. She looks tired—more weary and defeated, maybe. He’s seen her exhausted and overworked before; this is something else.

Defeat.

He averts his eyes as Chelsea flits over to her, talking in hushed tones as they look at something on the blonde’s iPhone. Not for wandering eyes and eavesdropping ears, clearly. But Bobby’s pretty good at body language and reading between the lines—he’s got to be—and there’s tension there. Chelsea looks sympathetic, the uncharacteristically dark circles under her eyes nearly identical to Nicola’s. She places a perfectly-manicured, reassuring hand on her boss’s shoulder.

 _“I’ll let Hope know,”_ is all Bobby hears as she disappears through a side door to the right.

No one says anything for a long time. He pretends to pick at the stray fibers of his jeans and the rest of the team does the same, none of them daring to even look in her direction. Suddenly, everyone has dirt under their fingernails and e-mails to respond to.

He can’t remember a time the room had ever been this quiet. They were usually a rowdy bunch, a no-holds-barred approach taken amongst them that’d only led to good things thus far. One of the first things Nicola said to him was that she wanted him to feel comfortable expressing himself, good or bad and everything in between. _This doesn’t work if there’s no open communication_.

Good advice for both business and relationships, like when one party is cheating on the other.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Nicola’s raspy, thick voice says, “I want to scrap it.”

“The whole thing? Are you taking the piss?” Kassam, her producer, asks. He’d whipped around so quickly that his bun was now disheveled and sitting at the nape of his neck. Bobby has never seen him with long hair before.

He can’t decide if it suits him.

She scoffs. “Well, I can’t release an album of fucking love songs, now can I?” Everyone looks at one another to avoid catching her eye, all thinking the same thing. _No, I guess you can’t._ “Scrap it,” she says with finality, staring through Kassam with all the intensity of a woman in the midst of the worst heartbreak of her life.

“I—are you sure?” He seems to panic when she shrugs, her eyes fixed on her phone. Slender fingers scratch at the tattoo on his neck. “Nic, the album was nearly finished. You can’t—”

Her gaze snaps upward. “I can’t _what,_ Kaz?” she asks, her unpolished accent slipping through as it sometimes does when she gets upset.

“It’s your choice,” he says, backing down immediately, seeming immeasurably small in his chair now, “and I’ll do whatever you want. I’m just making sure you know what you’re asking all of us to do.”

There’s nothing but pain in her eyes as she says, “Then anyone who doesn’t want to do it can walk.”

Bobby’s expecting at least one of them to stand and make an awkward departure because they just don’t have the energy. No one would blame them. But his trainers stay planted on the floor, his body in silent protest even if he’d wanted to walk out, and he tells himself it’s because he wants to do this. Heartbreak is easy to write about—he’s made a career of writing about all sorts of things—but, well, there’s a difference between hypothetical heartbreak and heartbreak that’s raw and staring you in the face, isn’t there?

“All right, then,” Kaz says, spinning in his chair to look around the room. Finally, he turns back to the array of desktop monitors in front of him and starts clicking around. “Permanently deleted or just shelved?”

Nicola’s quiet. Whatever rage had been rolling off her has dissipated and paved the way for anguish. Bobby thumbs through the seven stages of grief in his head.

“Deleted.” There’s no hesitance in her voice at all. “If I fall in love again, it won’t sound like those songs anyway, right? So just bin them.”

Ah, so she’s in the ‘Anger’ stage.

Just a few clicks of a mouse are all it takes for nearly an entire album’s worth of songs to disappear completely, never to be heard again. Years from now, people would speak of Nicola Jordan’s abandoned record of love songs written for a man she’d promised to spend the rest of her life with and never got the chance to perform. The audience would be sympathetic, the mass of ordinary people unable to relate to having a relationship go so wrong so publicly.

Bobby feels a pang of grief. They’d all worked so hard. There’d been so many late nights and laughing fits and moments of pure astonishment that they were all together, creating this beautiful, wondrous thing. It was like watching your child grow up into a successful, well-regarded adult. Just pure adoration and a bit of disbelief.

And now it’s gone.

“Maybe we should try again tomorrow,” Kaz suggests, pinching the bridge of his nose. A murmur of agreement choruses amongst the studio, no one really putting up much of a fight. When Nicola doesn’t say anything, the producer stands from his chair and stretches, cracking his knuckles with his thumbs. “All right, then. We’ll meet back here in the morning. Everyone, sleep with your thinking caps on—we have lots of work to do.”

Nicola stays silent, only leaning over to pick up her guitar, a flash pink Fender strat the company had sent to her before release. She’d been so excited the day it’d gotten delivered, eyes lighting up as she unpacked it. Now she strums the strings as if it’s any old instrument, like she’s strummed those strings so many times they’ve lost their charm.

A loud, A-minor chord rings out from an amp as everyone collects their stuff. Nicola frowns and adjusts the tuning. She tries again, the chord much closer to where it should be this time, and settles into the couch. Kassam and Lottie both lean down to give her one-armed hugs as they leave together, discussing where they should go for lunch. No one bothers to give it a second thought.

Soon, through no additional planning of his own, Bobby’s the only one left. He’s switching between the Notes and Voice Memo apps on his phone, trying to see if there are any bits of songs he can use, any unfinished melodies or lyrics without purpose. But since he’s started working with Nicola, all he’s been able to write are love songs. There’s nothing about heartbreak. Everything’s rainbows and sunshine, not a grey cloud to be seen for miles. He locks his phone with a quiet huff.

“Could you grab me a capo?” Nicola asks, her question nearly drowned out from the volume of the amp.

Bobby nods, fetching one from a shelf above the guitar rack. He snorts at the sight of Rocco’s ukulele stashed amongst the guitars, tattered from age with faded stickers from bands meant to make him seem deep and interesting. The fucking prick has never even heard a single Yo La Tengo song and Bobby would bet money on it. And yet for years, he’s had a steady gig playing guitar in the live band of the biggest pop stars in the world, despite doing everything in his power to _not_ come off as a sell-out.

Yeah, definitely a prick.

“Here ya go, boss,” Bobby says, handing over the capo.

She accepts it with a tight-lipped smile, immediately placing it over the second fret. Bobby wants to say something, _anything_ , to break the tension. He wants to tell her he’s there if she wants to talk, just say the word if she needs anything. Ask if she’s okay. But he doesn’t, because now isn’t the time and it isn’t his place. The break up is still extremely fresh and she’s been hounded about it since someone had leaked it to the press, social media ablaze immediately at the first mention of trouble in paradise. Bobby can’t even imagine trying to live under that kind of pressure.

Nicola clears her throat and runs through some vocal warm-ups, eventually singing a few quiet _ooh_ ’s in ascending and descending octaves as she strums. E-minor – D – G; E-minor – G – C. Her voice is raspy and strained as she sings.

 _I had all and then most of you_ _  
_ _Some and now none of you_ _  
_ _Take me back to the night we met_ _  
_ _I don’t know what I’m supposed to do_ _  
_ _Haunted by the ghost of you_ _  
_ _Oh, take me back to the night we met_

Bobby’s in awe of her when she’s like this, raw and real and everything the public rarely gets to see. Well, he’s in awe of her all the time. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because he can’t write sad songs anymore. He just writes about being in love because he _is._ He’s in love with someone who doesn’t have a clue, despite his many hints and all her jokes about how great he is at writing these stupid love songs. _Write what you know_ and all that.

“You gonna write a Lord Huron album?” Bobby jokes. “You could get that Netflix money.”

She doesn’t crack a smile, but at least she laughs, even if it’s cynical. “Nah, I’m gonna write the sequel to _Lemonade_ and do a world tour with Beyoncé.”

“Aye, you’d break the internet. The Beyhive would go mental.” Bobby conjures an image in his head and laughs out loud. “Fuck, could you imagine Rocco on that tour?”

Nicola deepens her voice and fails horribly at an Irish accent. “Nic, babe, you should open with ‘Wonderwall.’ You have the perfect aura for it.”

“If only the stars could align to send us to Tanzania. I feel it’s my karmic destiny to climb Mount Kilimanjaro,” Bobby mocks.

Another quiet laugh and tight-lipped smile. Suddenly, he feels silly and almost out of line. Back to staring at his phone. Back to wishing he could take her pain and embarrassment away. Back to watching her fall over herself to earn the attention and respect of a man who never truly _saw_ her, not the way he did. Back to wishing those thoughts didn’t creep into the crevices of his mind.

Because she’s not some kind of prize to be won, and Bobby was never in with a shot to begin with.

* * *

 **@nicolajordan** **✓** **  
**571 Posts | 124M Followers | 348 Following

Bobby can’t help himself.

They’re _friends_ , and it’s not as if he’s prone to stalking his friends on Instagram, but what had started off as an innocent thought (“Did she delete all the photos of them together?”) had quickly spiralled into an obsessive need to know the answer.

Well, maybe “friends” would be pushing it. They follow one another on social media and text occasionally about things that aren’t work-related, and Bobby knows some degree of her life story because it helps him when they write together, but there’s always been a part of her she keeps guarded. A side-effect of the job, if he has to guess. She’s not the only celebrity he knows and they’ve all got that trait in common. No one of that status ever lets him all the way in. That’s been the story of his life for as long as he can remember: always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Something about Bobby just seems to scream Friend Material.

And he tries really, really hard to pretend it doesn’t bother him.

He scrolls through her Insta, double-tapping a photo Chelsea had snapped of her in the studio the other day. Now _she_ was the type of person he needed to surround himself with: kind, warm, and out there; the inverse of who Bobby has become over the last few years. He used to be like her—used to be the life of the party, the one who could always get someone to crack a smile on their worst day. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost that part of himself.

Probably around the time he started schmoozing with celebrities and falling hopelessly in love with someone who couldn’t be arsed to notice.

He keeps scrolling until he makes it to July of last year. After nearly seven months of the lot of them flying back and forth to New York, nearly splitting their time between the two countries equally, Nicola had taken the month off to lie on a private beach with only her fiancé as company. A few weeks later, she returned to the UK with an ostentatious rock on her finger and her most-liked photo on Instagram: a picturesque sunset in the background, rays glinting off the ring as her neon pink toes dug into white sand.

_The journey was hell, but it brought me heaven._

Bobby had memorized the caption because it sounded like a song—like something he’d write years from now, after all this nonsense was behind him and he was finally able to fall in love and feel whole.

But the picture’s gone, just like all the rest of them that’d had Henrik in them. Almost like he’d never existed, just a mirage of a love she could’ve had if people were perfect and didn’t hurt and betray one another. Like everyone else in their group, Bobby had been genuinely shocked when rumours started swirling. He’d always gotten on with Henrik, would’ve almost admitted to genuinely liking the sod, and he’d helped Nicola write enough love songs about him that he knew what they had was real. Well, it’d been real for her, at least.

He types Henrik’s username into the search bar and pulls up his page.

 **@henrik.bergstrom** **✓** **  
**1,421 Posts | 13M Followers | 179 Following

Fucking models. Fucking Henrik with his height and bone structure and his beautiful hair and his complete inability to see what a perfect woman he’d had ready and eager to spend the rest of her life with him.

Unlike Nicola, Henrik hasn’t deleted any of their photos together. _Probably to milk whatever level of fame he’d acquired by being with her_ , Bobby thinks bitterly. There’s a video from the day they’d gotten engaged and Bobby watches it on a loop. Nicola’s centered in the frame, her freckles darker and hair lighter from a month spent in the sun, her eyes rimmed with happy tears as she holds her hand out in front of her to admire her ring. She’s looking up at him with pure amazement, as if she couldn’t believe the man in front of her was in love with _her,_ that he’d chosen _her_.

They look happy. There are a few photos where they both look serious, as models and beautiful people are wont to do, but at least one of them is beaming in the rest of them. Really, Bobby just wonders where it’d all gone wrong. What could make someone, who’s in a seemingly happy and fulfilling relationship, seek out someone else?

He clicks on the most recent picture of Henrik and Nicola together, taken a few weeks ago on Christmas morning. They’re in matching footy pyjamas, sat in front of a massive tree adorned with decorations that probably cost more than his flat. Nicola’s dog—a drool-encrusted St. Bernard named Garfunkel who had peed on Bobby’s trainers at the studio once—lays between them with a Santa hat stuck on his head. It has all the appearances of the perfect family photo, and Bobby wonders if Henrik had been balls-deep in someone else by then, or if that came later.

Everything sends his head for a spin. He’s met truly horrible people before—people who’d lie and cheat and con their way through life without a second thought. And even though those people were morally bankrupt, at least he knew what he was getting with them. There was never any doubt that they’d fuck him just as hard as they fucked everyone else, and that was reassuring in a way. It always feels like a punch to the gut when someone he’d held previously in high-regard turns out to be like those people.

He thumbs back to Henrik’s feed, scrolling up to the post he’s shocked hasn’t been deleted yet, posted during the now-infamous New Year’s Eve house party where everything had gone wrong. Henrik is featured square and center in an album of selfies he’d taken with all his mates. And there, lurking in the background of the third-to-last photo, is the woman who brought down Britain’s sardonically-named Royal Couple. Even if she hadn’t been tagged, Bobby could spot her a mile off just from that tacky metallic gold dress alone—the one that tried to exude 1998 Gianni Versace Runway but barely skirted across the line as clearance rack TK Maxx.

She’d been photographed in it the morning after, having tried to sneak out undetected as if the paparazzi could resist the £14-million penthouse in Mayfair they knew played home-away-from-home for a Swedish-British model engaged to the country’s most popular musical artist. Unfortunately for her she’d been unsuccessful, and the name Blake Mitchell was now synonymous with _homewrecker_ as Henrik tried desperately to mitigate the damage.

Nicola had watched on helplessly from her rented apartment in New York, having flown out the day after Christmas to finish recording the album. Bobby hadn’t gone, but Chelsea and Lottie made sure to fill him in once they were all back in the same country. True to her nature, Chelsea had tried to act as diplomatically as possible, laying out the facts as best she could while her mouth spoke a million words per minute. Lottie, on the other hand, had sworn to get “that Z-list, knock-off, absolute slag _cunt_ blacklisted even from her own fucking mother’s funeral.”

For a split second, Bobby had almost felt sorry for Blake. She had absolutely no chance if Lottie was after her.

Now, he can’t help but laugh as he scrolls through the comments on Henrik’s post.

> _lmaoooo cant believe u cheated on nicola with human tin foil_
> 
> _Imagine cheating on @nicolajordan with a Spoons Saturday Night Special, couldn’t be me_
> 
> _This is why men ain’t shit! You can be Nicola Jordan and STILL get cheated on!_

For a split second, Bobby almost feels sorry for Henrik, too. Then he thinks back to the shell of a woman he’d seen the other day in the studio and whatever slight affection he feels for the Swede is gone, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

 _Fuck you for doing this to her,_ he types out.

But he deletes it just as quick. That’s not a road he should be going down right now, or ever.

* * *

“So! What’s going on with you and Kassam?” Chelsea asks Lottie, her fingers busy with the straw of her strawberry milkshake. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you two having lunch together the other day!”

Lottie groans as she watches Bobby shove a handful of chips into his mouth. “All that grease is terrible for your skin.” He doesn’t bother responding to Lottie’s quip, just flutters his eyelashes at her. “Fine,” she shrugs, “lose those pretty little freckles of yours and see how much pussy you no longer get.”

“Lottie!” Chelsea shrieks, her inquisition into the Aussie’s love life forgotten. “Don’t say that word.”

“Aye, Lottie, don’t say that word,” Bobby chides. His shriek matches Chelsea’s as Lottie throws a wadded-up napkin at him.

“ _Children_ ,” Hope scolds them playfully, appearing in the doorway. She takes the empty seat across from Lottie, slumping into it in a very un-Hope way. She was usually the most polished and on-point person in their entourage, hair always in exquisite braids and her extravagant clothing ironed so stiff it could probably stand on its own.

Today, her hair is piled on top of her head messily and she’s in an oversized (yet still stylish, because even on the days Hope wasn’t at her best, she was still _Hope_ ) jumper and mom jeans. Not a good sign.

Bobby swallows hard.

“Babes, are you okay?” Chelsea asks, sugar dripping from every word. “You look like you need, like, a billion spa days.”

“I do,” Hope deadpans. She grabs for one of Bobby’s chips, earning another groan out of Lottie.

“What is with you lot?”

“Nic’s in mourning, so we’re all in mourning, too. By extension, like,” Hope says, her reply muffled from all the food in her mouth. “We’re overworked and exhausted. I spent all morning hiring movers, and do you know how many _don’t_ want to sign an NDA? Like, all of them. It took them so fucking long to show up that I had to reschedule all my afternoon meetings to tomorrow, and I already only had half an hour open.” She shoves another chip into her mouth. “So I can eat these fucking chips if I want to.”

“ _You_ hired the movers?” Lottie asks. “Isn’t that a Chelsea thing?”

A loud slurping sound ends abruptly as Chelsea’s eyes widen. “Ooh! Yes! It _is_ a Chelsea thing!” she exclaims around the straw. “But Nicola gave me the officially important job of finding her a new place! She knows how much I love stuff like that.”

Bobby lets out a low whistle, not even bothering to swat Hope’s wandering hands away from his food anymore. Eventually he pushes the mostly-empty container in front of her, chuckling as she moans in excitement. “She’s officially moving out, then? Sucks to be Henrik, eh?”

“You know, normally I’d chew you the fuck out for saying that,” Lottie begins, still glaring in Bobby’s direction even as she’s proclaiming to be nice, “but she stayed at mine last night and that phone call was _not_ pretty.”

“That bad, huh?” Hope asks.

Lottie tosses her hair over her shoulder. “She read that prick for pure filth, let me tell you. Dragged him straight to the ends of the earth.”

Hope looks up from her phone, clearly intrigued. It’s her job to keep them all in check so she tries really hard to act like she’s above the gossip, but she’s just as susceptible as the rest of them. “Really?”

“Mmm. She called him to tell him about the movers and he immediately started his shit. God, you should’ve heard him whinge like the wombat he is. ‘Nicola, älsking, I’m so sorry. Please don’t. Please let me fix this.’”

“Horrible Swedish accent,” Bobby decides. “Zero out of ten stars.”

Lottie gives him the finger.

Chelsea frowns. “Poor Nicky,” she says. “She’s hurt and lashing out.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Lottie retorts. “And like a true fucking queen, if you ask me. You don’t get to cheat on someone like her with a dero like Blake Mitchell and then run back to Sweden with your tail tucked between your legs and _not_ get spoken to that way.”

“Lottie,” Chelsea nearly whines, “we can’t encourage things like this! We should be, like, encouraging her to cope in healthy ways!”

The Aussie rolls her eyes. “I already told her stress is bad for her skin, but—”

“Ooh, I know! We should throw a party!”

“I don’t know if anyone’s in the mood for partying, babe,” Hope says, her head now cradled in her arms against the table. “We’re all so busy. Maybe we should let this die down a bit first.”

“Nonsense! A party is just what everyone needs! Good friends, strong drinks, and we can have it at Lucas’s penthouse! The one with the indoor pool and the room full of roses!”

Hope’s head shoots up. “You want me to drag Lucas into this?”

Lottie hums in agreement. “It’s not a bad idea, actually. I mean, what’s the point in being a hot, young surgeon who’s never in the country and is literally swimming in family money if you can’t lend your missus and her mates your swanky penthouse for a rager?”

Chelsea pouts. “Please, Hope! That pool is just to _die_ for and Nic would love it!”

Bobby’s eyebrows are knit together in confusion. “Wait, this fella literally has a room in his house just for roses and we’re all pretending this is normal?”

Lottie leans closer to him and whispers, “It’s weird rich people shit.”

“Well, fuck. Is he looking for a roommate?” Bobby whispers back, earning a cackle out of her.

Hope sighs, finally relenting after everyone stares at her expectantly. “He’ll be in Amsterdam this weekend for a conference, so I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask.” She grabs her personal phone and fires off a quick text message, setting it back down on the table face-first afterwards.

“Ooh, tell him to bring back some good weed,” Lottie chimes.

Hope scoffs. “Definitely not.”

“I’ll pay him back, obviously. Not that he can’t afford it.”

“I’m not asking my boyfriend to smuggle drugs into the country for you. I should fire you for talking about doing drugs in the workplace to begin with.”

Lottie grins. “You’d never. Besides, it’s my lunch hour and you’re not even my boss.”

Chelsea checks her phone for the time. “More like _two_ lunch hours. Are Nic and Kaz still doing that thing?”

Bobby snorts. “ _That thing_? You mean writing an album?”

“Not nice, Bobs,” Chelsea replies, sending him a pointed look. “You know I don’t like getting bogged down in details I don’t need to memorize.”

And, well, he can’t really argue with that. Chelsea had told him once how she came to work for Nicola, how she’d always been a personal assistant since finishing school but got sacked by a bunch of corporate elites because her ADHD made it difficult for her to always do her job properly. Hope had been looking to hire someone and saw Chelsea’s CV, and even though she’d never worked for a bona fide celebrity before, decided to take a risk and interview her.

Nicola had been smitten the second they met, Chelsea having engulfed her in a hug like they were old friends separated by time and fame, and insisted Hope hire her. The manager had been more wary. After all, not one former employer she’d called gave the blonde a good recommendation. Most told her to stay far away from hiring Chelsea Carter-White, but Nicola wouldn’t hear it.

The first time Bobby had met her had been a studio day in New York. Naively, he’d thought someone had brought their girlfriend along. She fit the bill for the types he usually saw hanging around: platinum blonde, makeup done to perfection, expensive clothes draped over a fit body. She hugged him and introduced herself right away, and if Bobby’s eyes had been open, he’d have seen Nicola’s old producer roll his eyes and thumb his nose at her, voice ten octaves higher and face contorted as he whispered insults to the person closest to him.

“Do that shit again and you’re fired,” Nicola had said, not even bothering to look up from her guitar.

“What?”

“Don’t _what_ me, and don’t mock my people.”

Chelsea had looked over at Bobby then, her blue eyes nearly brimming with tears. “Is she talking about me? Did he say something about me?”

Why Felix had chosen then to dig in his heels is still a mystery Bobby’s trying to solve. “Are you serious, Nic? She’s a proper twit and you’re having a go at me over it?”

Bobby had known Nicola nearly a year by then. They’d worked on a few songs, had loads of studio sessions, and not once had he seen her angry. Annoyed and frustrated, sure, but never seething with rage the way she’d been as soon as Felix had opened his dumb mouth.

She’d stood up then, fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of her guitar. Even though she was all of five-foot-seven, Bobby was scared to death of her in that moment. “You’re lucky I don’t bash your stupid blue head to a fuckin’ pulp, you fuckin’ chav. Get the fuck out of here.”

“Nic—”

“Why the fuck are you still here? Fuck off! You’re done.”

Everyone had been dead silent as Felix collected his things, too scared that even a cough would get them booted, too. Once he was gone, Nicola had turned back to the group, noticing Chelsea’s tear-stained cheeks immediately.

“C’mere, love,” she’d said, wrapping Chelsea in a tight hug. “All right?” she asked once she pulled back a bit. “This is why we don’t pay any mind to what stupid boys with blue hair think of us, yeah?”

Chelsea had just nodded, desperately trying to stop her sniffling. “Yeah,” she agreed, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Good. No one messes with my girl.” Nicola had turned to the rest of the group with a mischievous smile. “Bobby, would you be a dear and pop down to the liquor store? I think we all need a few drinks after that.”

By the time he got back, their block of the studio had been booming with sound. Nicola and Chelsea had managed to wrangle Hope into an impromptu Spice Girls karaoke session while Rocco moped in the corner, unimpressed with the entire ordeal. Kassam had shown up the next day, much to Lottie’s delight, while Felix returned to Rotherham to try and salvage a back-up career as a club promoter.

Nicola had made a friend for life that day, and everyday Bobby witnesses how Chelsea would go to the ends of the earth for her.

Bobby’s phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up with a notification from Nicola. It’s a link to an interview Henrik had done with a Swedish publication.

 **‘I’m not the person people are making me out to be’** **  
**_Henrik Bergstrom breaks his silence following allegations he cheated on fiancée Nicola Jordan_

Bobby skims through the article, rolling his eyes so many times he can hear his mum scolding him in his head, telling him if he rolls them one more time they’re going to get stuck back there. It’s standard fare, to be honest: he’s heartbroken their relationship has ended but there’d been problems for a long time (lie), he did cheat (truth) but he feels terrible about the mistake he made and has regretted it ever since (probable lie), he and Nicola have spoken about it privately and decided to move forward amicably (definitely a lie), he still loves Nicola and wishes her the best (probably the truth), but he’s hopeful he can move on with his life without this hanging over his head (unlikely, so long as Lottie lives and breathes).

His phone buzzes with another notification.

 **Nicola**   
Can you do something with this:

 _I didn’t have it in myself to go with grace /_ _  
_ _And you’re the hero flying around saving face_

 **Bobby**   
Aye, u got it lass :thumbsup:   
We can work on it later if ur not busy

 **Nicola**   
Thanks Bobs, let’s shoot for tomorrow. Hung up w Kaz right now   
What would I do without you?

 **Bobby**   
Have really terrible songs obviously

* * *

True to his word, Lucas had given Hope the all-clear to throw a party in one of his many penthouses scattered across the country—the one with the indoor pool and all the roses, just as Chelsea had requested. Bobby had spotted the blonde by the door when he arrived, greeting everyone with warm hugs and a smile that, when combined, felt like the gates of Heaven.

He made quick rounds as soon as he stashed his coat, clapping up what felt like a million people he faintly recognized. Hope showed him the infamous Rose Room and it was exactly what Chelsea had said: a climate-controlled room filled with hundreds of flowers.

“Why?” was all Bobby could muster.

Hope had just shrugged, not even attempting an explanation. Bobby had long ago stopped being amazed at the obnoxious things rich people spent their money on.

Unsurprisingly, he also spots Lottie in the kitchen, seemingly bored to death with a story Rocco is telling.

“It’s the middle of winter, mate. Why the fuck are you wearing thongs?” she asks, cutting him off from whatever bullshit he’s touting to stare at his feet.

He looks affronted and crosses his arms over his chest. “What? I got these in Rishikesh, and they’re infused with essential oils. I’ve been changing which oil I use every week to make sure I hit all seven of my chakras.”

Lottie glances at Bobby and mimes shooting herself in the head, her invisible brains splattering behind her as her fingers splay. Rocco is oblivious. “Wow,” she replies sarcastically. “And which chakra are you up to now?”

“The fourth, coincidentally.”

Bobby nabs a champagne glass from a tray on the marble counter, unsure of what’s in it. He takes a cautious sip, pleased to find it’s just rosé. “What’s coincidental about that?” he asks. He doesn’t have to look over at Lottie to know she’s glaring at him. Again.

“Bobby!” Rocco chimes, moving to embrace him. “Great to see you, mate! So glad you could make it and be here in this moment with us.”

“He’s been standing there for, like, five minutes,” Lottie grumbles.

Undeterred, Rocco replies, “Ah, well, you always cross paths with someone only when you’re meant to. Never too soon and never too late.” His features scrunch up as he sends Bobby an exaggerated wink.

“Are you sure you’re an actual human and not a Lewis Carroll character?” Lottie’s quip goes unnoticed.

“The fourth chakra is your heart chakra,” Rocco explains, his attention still focused on Bobby. “It represents love and self-acceptance. Ever since this unfortunate mess with Nicola and Henrik, I’ve felt mine begin to fall out of alignment and made sure to stock up on rosewood oil.”

“And you actually believe this?” Lottie asks. “I mean, I know I’m into some unusual shit, but _essential oils_? Really?”

Rocco sighs, as if he’s experiencing extreme disappointment. “You know, _Charlotte_ , rosewood oil is also very helpful in releasing internalized grief and melancholy. Not to overstep, but judging from your attitude, I really think it could help you.”

She’s gripping the stem of her wine glass so tight Bobby’s sure it’s bound to break. “Rocco, the only thing that’d help me,” she seethes, her green eyes nearly black, “is if you fucked off and died an extremely painful death and they never found your body.”

As if he’s attempting—and succeeding, if Bobby’s being honest—to push every single one of Lottie’s buttons, Rocco _chuckles_ at her retort. “I know you’re trying to insult me, but that’s the most environmentally-friendly way to return to the earth and I wouldn’t be against it one bit.”

Lottie grabs Bobby’s arm then, pulling him towards the lounge. It’s massive, and there are bodies in various stages of undress occupying nearly every inch of it. Windows take up the entire wall to his right, awarding everyone a spectacular view of nighttime London with the curtains drawn. Bobby takes a second to appreciate it. The Eye looks spectacular from this high into the sky, lit up a vibrant shade of red.

He’s rubbed countless elbows with the rich and famous and they all had one thing in common: horrible taste in interior design. Bobby could’ve described Lucas’s penthouse from the sidewalk with his eyes closed. Muted beige tones and white leather couches, concrete floors and plush area rugs, not a single personal object (especially no personal photos), overindulgent fabrics and appliance choices, and at least one instrument they couldn’t play that existed solely to say _I have more money than taste. Please ask me how much this cost, but don’t ask me to play it._ The Steinway Black Diamond piano prominently displayed in the center of the room proudly proclaims Lucas’s choice.

“That piano costs half a million pounds,” Bobby comments.

“ _Starts_ at half a million,” Lottie corrects him. “I think Hope said it was double that.”

“And he doesn’t even play it?” Bobby asks even though he already knows the answer.

A smirk tugs at her crimson-painted lips. “Why solve world hunger when you can flex with a fucking piano?”

“And yet here we both are, mingling with the bourgeoisie,” Bobby laments.

Chelsea sidles up beside them. “Are the proletariat plotting to dismantle capitalism again?” she asks, beaming at them with impossibly white teeth.

“Of course we are, babe.” Lottie gives her an overexaggerated smooch on the cheek, shrieking with laughter at the lip print left behind. Bobby’s always surprised at how high-pitched it is, not matching Lottie’s tough-girl exterior at all.

As they polish off their third—or fourth, Bobby can’t remember—round of drinks, Kassam strolls in with Nicola not far behind, their fingers just barely intertwined. _Fuck,_ Bobby thinks, taking in the deep cut of her emerald green dress that leaves barely anything to the imagination. The D-list celebrities in attendance try not to make a fuss, but eventually their excitement wins over and they’re fawning like teenagers. Bobby notices Lottie’s jaw clench and marks it off as strange, wondering if the unspoken implication is there even if she’s desperately trying to swallow the thought.

“There you are!” Chelsea half-yells as she finally spots Kassam, stomping off in his direction. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be here an hour ago!”

Bobby places a hand in the small of Lottie’s back. “All right?” She barely nods. “I’m gonna check out the pool if you’d care to join me.”

Her eyes never leave Kassam and Nicola. “In a minute, Bobby.”

“Loz, I really think you should. Your face isn’t hiding a thing.”

She looks like she wants to take a chunk out of him, knock him down to size for even implying what he was—that the gears in her brain were whirring, coming up with scenarios that weren’t true solely to hurt her own feelings. That devil on her shoulder was shooting to kill, aiming straight at her heart and firing without a second thought. Nicola and Kassam weren’t a thing. They never _would_ be a thing.

Maybe Bobby was trying to convince Lottie as much as he was trying to convince himself.

Finally, as she watches Kassam fend off Chelsea and park behind a large DJ booth, she relents. She lets Bobby grab her elbow gently, leading her in the direction he barely remembers the pool being. Lucas’s penthouse is too fucking big and fuck him for thinking he could possibly need all this space.

After descending a spiral staircase at the end of the hall, the two are met with the overwhelming scent of chlorine. Everything smells like the sports centre he used to visit when he was a kid. He can hear the shrieks of laughter from the other kids, see the garish neon colours of their swimsuits.

He thinks about the last day he’d gone there. The last week of August, 2002. His mum had taken him and his sister for ice cream afterwards before breaking the news that she and their dad were getting divorced. He remembers his sister crying. He remembers the sadness in his mum’s voice, her reluctant promises that everything was going to be okay.

But the bottom floor of Lucas’s penthouse doesn’t look like the old sports centre. It’s a tacky, modern rip-off of the Playboy Mansion—the kind of thing a person with new money would find impressive with its faux-cavernous hides and fluorescent underwater lighting. He feels dirty just being here, that aforementioned smell of chlorine the only thing convincing him the water was safe to touch. Even the jacuzzi looks sketchy.

There’s a bar against the far-right wall, fully stocked with any and everything Bobby could ever hope to drink. While Lottie situates herself at the edge of the pool, tucking her long legs beneath her, he mixes them something strong. Maybe he’d vouch for Lucas after all when it came time to eat the rich.

“Cheers,” she says as she accepts the drink. Her eyes stay trained on the water. “I forgot my swimsuit.”

Bobby kicks his shoes off and cuffs his trousers with his empty hand. He joins Lottie on the tile floor and sticks his feet in the water, nearly moaning at how warm it is. God, he loves capitalism. He loves rich people and how gauche they are and that they’ll happily spend extra money to make sure the massive indoor pool they never use is heated.

“Get me plastered enough and I’ll probably go in fully clothed.”

Lottie scoffs. “Why wouldn’t you just skinny dip?”

Bobby arches an eyebrow, plastering a look of faux-incredulity across his face. “D’ye trust that water? This whole penthouse looks straight out of a porno.”

Loud music suddenly booms from upstairs, heavy bass reverberating off all the walls. There’s a muffled announcement followed by loud cheering. Lottie only frowns deeper. He’d thought his porno comment might make her laugh and, to be honest, he feels a bit devastated when it doesn’t.

He bumps her shoulder with his own, laughing as it causes his drink to spill into his lap. “Looks like I’ve pissed myself.” She cracks a smile at that one. “Come on, Lozza, lay it on me. You look too braw in that dress to be sad.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” he says. “You always look like you’d ruin my life when you wear leather, and I’d let you.” She actually laughs at that one, making him crack a goofy grin. “C’mon, tell me all your troubles.”

She opens her mouth to speak but hesitates, clamping it shut again. “I don’t—we should just enjoy the party, yeah? Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re one of my best mates. I _always_ worry about you.”

After a long pause, she finally sighs, finishing off most of her drink before speaking. “Me and Kaz went to lunch the other day, right? That day we were all at the studio.”

“Aye, I remember.”

“I thought it’d be a good time to tell him… _you know_.”

Bobby chuckles. “That you’re in love with him?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lottie argues. “Just that I have feelings for him and that, if he feels the same, I’d like to see where it goes.”

“He’s a lucky lad,” Bobby says, taking a sip from his drink.

Lottie scoffs. “Yeah, well, he didn’t agree with you.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Says I’m a _bonny lass_ but—”

Bobby frowns. “That’s my line.”

“Can you not?” He mumbles an apology and she continues. “He just… I mean, I guess I can appreciate that he was trying to let me down easy, you know? But—”

“It hurts like hell,” Bobby finishes for her.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “It hurts like hell.”

“And then you had to watch them two show up together and it set your brain off.”

“Yeah.”

“Does she know?”

“Nic?” Bobby nods. “Nah. What would be the point in telling her?”

He tries to hide his surprise. “I don’t know. She’s your best mate, ain’t she? I guess I just assumed you would’ve told her something like that.”

“She has her own issues to worry about,” Lottie shrugs. “Besides, he doesn’t feel that way about me so there’s nothing to tell.”

Bobby wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her against him. “Just because she’s hurting doesn’t mean you can’t hurt, too.”

She scoffs. “Her fiancé fucked another girl. Doesn’t really compare to the guy I like not liking me back.”

“It’s not a contest,” Bobby says, and the seriousness of his tone grabs Lottie by the shoulders. “Right now, you’re down here with me and you’re sad. And up there,” he points to the ceiling, “she’s the centre of attention and she’s sad, too. It doesn’t matter why, it just matters that you’re both sad.”

She dabs at the corners of her eyes with the pads of her fingers, trying not to ruin her makeup. Bobby’s never seen Lottie cry before. It’s jarring in the same way it’d been when he saw his mother cry, and it left him with an overarching need to be the person who fixes it. And that need has done nothing for him in his 26 years except set him up for failure, because he can’t fix everything and not everyone is made for fixing.

Finally, in a small, tired voice, Lottie simply says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll be expecting a cheque in the post.”

Lottie dumps the remainder of her drink into his lap, making the wet spot he’d acquired earlier triple in size. “Fuck! Christ, Lottie!” he sputters, gasping from the cold.

Beside him, the Aussie roars with laughter so contagious it sets him off too, and whatever grief she’s feeling dissipates as their shared mirth echoes off the walls.

Bobby rolls his eyes again as Kassam switches the song to a club mix of “Better Now” by Post Malone, as if he couldn’t play a more stereotypical break up song. But that’s exactly why they’re all here—it _is_ a break up celebration of sorts, after all. It’s an escape, an opportunity for Nicola to kick off her shoes and relax without being suffocated by the public implosion of her relationship.

“God, it’s fucking loud up there,” he comments, well aware that _he’s_ now the stick in the mud. “I’d hate living next to this geezer. Seems like a place where stuck-up posh people live.”

Lottie waves her hand, dismissing him. “Lucas also owns the penthouse below us.”

Bobby blinks once, twice, and then eight more times. “These are multimillion-pound penthouses and he just… _owns two_ _of them_? For no reason? Just… because?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Lottie snorts, trying not to laugh. “You’ll die if I tell you.”

“Well, now you have to.”

“Alright,” she relents, seeming a bit giddy as she does. “He wasn’t sure which view he’d like more so he said ‘fuck it’ and bought both. Oh, and he also bought _that_ penthouse so no one would lodge a noise complaint against _this_ penthouse, because this is the one meant for parties. The one below us doesn’t have a pool.”

Bobby’s jaw drops. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Cross my heart.” Lottie forms a vague heart shape with her fingers.

“That’s it,” Bobby decides. “I’m going to eat the bastard.”

She snorts loudly. “ _What_?”

He exhales dramatically. “After the bar and heated pool, I contemplated vouching for him when the working class rises up and eats the rich, but after what you just told me, he’s getting dragged to the front of the queue.”

“He’s actually quite nice, you know,” Lottie chuckles. “He’s good for Hope. He can handle her.”

“Aye, she’s all loved up. I’m happy for her.”

“Are you?” Lottie asks, cocking a perfectly-arched eyebrow. “Or are you jealous?”

“’Course I’m jealous,” Bobby answers easily and without shame. “They have what everyone wants, don’t they? They’re good-looking, they have too much money, a loving relationship—”

“Four penthouses, two country estates, three vacation homes…”

Bobby can’t help but laugh. “They’re truly living the life, eh?”

Lottie tosses her silver hair over her shoulder, the purple lights of the pool reflecting in her irises. “Dunno about that,” she shrugs. “Nic had the same and we can all see how that turned out.”

The Scot hums in agreement. “Maybe Kaz should’ve played ‘Rich & Sad’ instead.”

The pair are quiet for a while, enjoying the silence and one another’s company and the muffled sounds of the party a floor above them. Lottie eventually gets up to mix them another round of drinks and returns with a spliff dangling between her tattooed fingers, eliciting an excited squeal from Bobby. They pass it back and forth as they swap stories, regaling one another with stories from their early 20s. Those had been the pinnacle of Bobby’s Paisley Cuddle days, when he was still trying to slum it in a punk band before selling out and working for The Man. Lottie had been living in Los Angeles then, having successfully turned her YouTube channel into a viable career doing hair and makeup.

During another bout of silence, Lottie asks, “What about you?”

“Hm? What d’you mean?”

Lottie stubs out the joint on the tile, brushing the ashes into the pool. “You spend so much time making sure everyone else is alright, I guess I’m just worried that no one’s making sure you are, too.”

Bobby faux-gasps and places a hand over his heart. “Could it be true? Could the Ice Queen possibly have a heart after all this time? And she’s worried about little ol’ _me_?”

He expects her to give him the finger or tell him to fuck off, maybe even push him in the pool. She doesn’t, she just stares at him and finally says, “Stop deflecting.”

“Loz—”

“Not everything has to be a joke,” she continues. “Sometimes you can just let people care about you.”

“I do,” he argues but it rings hollow. There’s no fight behind his words because he knows she’s right. “I… Fine, you’re right. Sometimes it’s just easier to be the lad with the jokes instead of the one who always needs reassurance.”

“Your jokes used to be funnier, if I’m being honest.”

“I know.”

“I think you knew what to say about Kassam because you’re going through it too, even if you won’t admit it.”

Jesus. What’s he supposed to say to that? That, once again, Lottie is completely correct and, not to spoil their night or anything, but he’d been enjoying commiserating with her about having feelings for someone who hasn’t bothered to spare them a second glance, and could they please just go back to that? That, unlike Lottie, he’s fully planning on taking his feelings to the grave?

“What do you want me to do? Admit that I’m a coward and that I wish I had as much courage as you do?”

“God, no,” Lottie says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’d be a disaster in light of recent events. I just wanted to see if you trusted me enough to admit it at all.”

“I’d trust you with my life,” Bobby answers honestly. “You’re mean as fuck and, to be honest, I truly believe you might be capable of murder.” Lottie swats at him. “I’m fucking scared to death of you. But you’ve also got a massive heart and so much love to give, and somehow I’ve been lucky enough to receive just a wee bit of it.”

The Aussie is quiet for a few minutes before she finally slugs him on the shoulder. “Fuck you, Bobby.”

“What’d I do?” he guffaws.

“You made me cry again. I never cry, and now I’ve cried twice in one night.”

He flashes her a lopsided grin. “To be fair, most nights with me do usually wind up ending in tears.”

“I can’t tell how you meant that, so I think that’s my cue to head back upstairs.” She extends her tattooed hand to him, barely moving a centimeter as she hauls up his body weight. As soon as he’s standing, she wraps him in a hug that tells him everything Lottie would never dare to say out loud. “You’ll know when it’s the right time,” she tells him. “And she’d be a fool not to feel the same.”

Bobby presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. “Charlotte Ryan Campbell: Patron Saint of Unrequited Love. Who’d’ve thunk it?”

She slugs him again for using her full name.

Upstairs, once they’re in the throes of the chaos once again, Bobby grabs another drink and is hit with the weight of his crossfade. Lucas’s gaudy chandeliers have long been shut off, replaced with obscene strobe lights in rotating colours. His vision is all fucked up, double of everything, and his head feels submerged. Whatever song Kassam is playing is unintelligible through his haze, but he’s certain he’s heard it at least once in a strip club, and the bass is even more violent up here, his heart hammering in his chest as if he’d just done a few lines.

Completely out of his body, he tries grabbing for Lottie but she’s not there. Instead, he latches onto Chelsea—or, well, he thinks it’s Chelsea. At his current level of intoxication, it’s hard to tell his mate apart from the sea of other blonde women in front of him.

Her warm shoulder now in Bobby’s grip, the nameless woman sizes him up, pupils wide as saucers, eventually breaking into a smile as she grabs his sweat-slick hands and guides them to her waist. Their bodies move together like waves, pushing apart only for Bobby to continuously pull her in closer, drunk on the feeling of her pressed against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, words impossible to hear over the music, “look at you. So fucking pretty.”

He threads a knee between her legs, the sound of his groan drowned out as she rolls her hips against him, practically dragging her core against his thigh. _Jesus Christ._ This isn’t how he expected this night to go. The heart-to-heart with Lottie by the pool? Sure, he might’ve guessed that one. There’s always at least one person crying at a party like this. But a nameless woman fifty paces out of his league grinding herself mere inches away from his hardening cock? Not in a million years.

The song changes again, this time to “Roses” by SAINt JHN—the original, with the grimy beat and heavy bass. And Bobby groans again, both because he might’ve thrown this on a sex playlist or two and he’s conditioned himself in some fucked up Pavlovian way, and because his hands grip the woman’s hips tighter, moving her back and forth on him as if she was on top riding him.

As he drags his eyes upward, he spots Nicola dancing with Chelsea across the room. Her profile is lit up by the strobe lights, filling in the contours of her bone structure with greens and blues. She’s absolutely radiant as she twirls Chelsea around, and if he closes his eyes tightly enough, he can pretend it’s her dancing with him; it’s her hips he’s gripping onto; it’s her who’s moaning and desperate for him in this moment.

When his eyes snap open again, he realizes he’s in this daydream alone.

So, he doesn’t object when the woman pressed against him drags him down the hallway and into an empty bathroom. He doesn’t object when she presses his back against the counter and her lips against his own, kissing him with all the usual urgency of a random hookup at a stranger’s party. He doesn’t object when her hands travel southbound, palming him through his trousers as she drops to her knees in front of him.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes, mostly out of pure disbelief. “I don’t—I don’t even know your name, lass.”

She looks up at him through artificially long lashes and, fuck, it’s too fucking bright in here. “Do you need to?” He shakes his head, every nerve in his body now hyper-focused on the strain in his pants as she undoes his belt.

The rational part of his brain knows he shouldn’t do this. Bobby’s off his head, floating amongst the clouds, and there’s no way she isn’t as well from how blown her pupils are. Still, as if on autopilot, he steps out of his trousers once they pool at his feet and threads his fingers through her hair as she palms him again.

Fuck, he’s so hard it hurts.

Just like before, he’s able to close his eyes and pretend this means something, that the woman sinfully on her knees in front of him, ready to pray to God and confess all her sins, is who he wishes she was. He blocks out everything.

Bobby watches with lidded eyes as she pushes his briefs down his legs, preparing himself to dish out satisfactory praise when the door flies open, a very bemused Lottie leaning against the doorway as he tries desperately to yank his pants back up his legs and over his erect cock.

“What the fuck, Lozza!”

She snorts, a closed fist covering her mouth as she tries desperately to keep her composure. She’s absolutely living for this, he realizes. “In my defence, I did try texting you.”

The woman is still on her knees on the floor, looking between the two with an expression he can’t figure out. Something between confusion, apathy, and pure terror. “Um, is this, like, your girlfriend?”

“He wishes,” Lottie smirks.

Bobby ignores her. “My phone’s in my pocket,” he seethes, bending forward to pick up his trousers, “which, as you can see, was not on my person.”

“Well, hurry up and get dressed,” Lottie quips, her eyes still twinkling. Arms folded across her chest, she makes absolutely no effort to move out of the doorway as the woman pushes past her. She finally cracks as Bobby continues to glare at her. “What? I just saved you from a shit-tier blowjob by some rando _and_ I even had the decency to not mention the size of your dick.”

This must be a fever dream, he tells himself. That’s the only way any of it makes sense. “Wha—? Why would you even _go_ there?”

Lottie shrugs. “Chelsea saw you disappear and suggested I come get you. You’re too fucked up for this right now.”

Belt buckle secure again, Bobby groans in annoyance. “First of all, I don’t _want_ you to know _anything_ about my cock. Second, since when are you also the Patron Saint of Cockblocking? I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re fine?” she laughs, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Then why are your pants on backwards, mate?”

“Just—just go away, Lottie, please,” he pleads. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Once she’s gone, he runs a hand through his hair and swears loudly. He knew this had been a bad idea, knew he should’ve just fucked off and gone home, and now he’s been caught out. Everyone knows. Chelsea watched him disappear into a bathroom with a semi and a bird whose name he didn’t even care to find out. What the fuck is wrong with him? He’d just spent most of his night whining about wanting someone he can’t have and spent a fraction more of it pretending it _was_ her. Christ—this will be something else he takes to his grave.

He bypasses the most populated parts of the house as he exits the bathroom, opting to escape to the fresh air of the balcony where he finds a discarded pack of cigarettes and digs one out. He hasn’t smoked a cigarette in years, not since his Paisley Cuddle days when it’d been more of a fashion accessory, but the nicotine greets him like an old friend in his time of need. The frigid January air bites at his exposed skin as he leans over the railing, his eyes drawn to the Eye once again as he fights off shivers.

Why does he feel so goddamn guilty? He’s a single man—has been for years, not that he’s keeping count—and they’d both been willing participants. The girls had just been looking out for him, making sure an innominate face wasn’t preying on him away from wandering eyes. To exist in Nicola’s inner circle meant wearing a permanent target on his back for everything it entails—some modicum of fame, fortune, and fake friends with bad intentions, including pretty women who, for reasons unbeknownst to him, want to blow him in a bathroom. So, yeah, he understands the importance of keeping his friends close. It’s always nice to know someone has your back.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s done something wrong, something fucked up he can’t come back from. _All this Henrik bullshit must be getting to me more than I thought_ , he thinks, ashing the cigarette over the railing.

The door opens and closes behind him. He can make out Kassam’s figure beside him in his peripheral vision, all the liquor and joints in the world unable to disguise the mop of hair tied haplessly atop his head. Without a word, Bobby offers him the pack of cigarettes, digging Lottie’s lighter out of his pocket.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Kassam says, waving the cloud of smoke away from Bobby’s direction.

The Scot chuckles. “I do tonight.”

“Fair play. I can’t really disagree with that myself.”

A companionable silence falls between them. Bobby wants to ask about Lottie, curious about the grounds of her rejection despite it being none of his business, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he asks the most neutral question he can.

“Everything all right with you, pal?”

Kassam shrugs, sucking a deep drag from his cigarette. “Shit’s fucked, bruv.”

“You talkin’ about the album?”

“It’s everything, innit?” he sighs. “The album, this party, everyone’s fucking relationship problems—”

Bobby can’t help himself as he asks, “Yours too?”

Another drag. Another exhale. “I take it you talked to Lottie, then.”

“Aye, I got her side of the story.”

Kassam stubs out his cigarette, flicking it over the balcony. They watch it fall fifty floors to the ground. “I can only imagine what she might’ve said.”

“It wasn’t really like that,” Bobby defends, “but she’s one of my best mates so it ain’t nice to see her upset.” The producer is quiet, staring into the distance as he takes in Bobby’s words. “It’s none of my business and I’m not, like, gonna run back and tell her whatever you say. But if two non-smokers are out here smoking, there may be something to that.”

Bobby’s sparked up another cigarette by the time Kassam finally speaks again.

“You know, the fucked-up part is that I do actually fancy her.”

“Yeah?”

Kaz sighs, running his hands over his face. “She’s my type all over and we get on like a house on fire. She’s fucking _fit,_ mate. I just—I don’t know if I’m willing to go there right now. Mixing business and pleasure and all that. If she wasn’t Nic’s best mate…” Then, as if Bobby hasn’t been caught out enough for one evening, he adds, “But I guess you can relate.”

It’s not often that Bobby’s stunned into silence. “What the fuck’s _that_ meant to mean?”

“I think Nic might be the only person who doesn’t see it.”

He wants to be angry. He wants to lambast Kassam for even insinuating what he is, but he can’t. He’s frozen, unsure of how to feel that his feelings are obvious to everyone except the object of them. That all these people have been watching him fall over himself for years and have carried that knowledge the entire time.

Kassam nudges him. “Don’t worry, bruv, your secret’s safe with me.”

“That’s not quite as reassuring as you may think.”

“Sorry,” Kassam laughs. There’s a detectable bitterness in his voice as he says, “You know that fucking weasel called her up earlier when we were at the studio and started having a go at her again?”

“Henrik did?” Bobby asks, trying to ignore the sound of his blood in his ears. “What’d he say?”

“Invited her to dinner to ‘talk things through’ or summat. Guess he was a bit mortal and had an absolute fit when she said no. You ever seen him like this?”

Bobby just shakes his head. “Nah, never. I didn’t know the lad all that well, though.”

“He’s gone full nutter.”

“Is she all right now?”

Kassam nods. “Don’ know what he said to her earlier, but she was pretty shaken up. Seems okay now, but she asked me to go with her to hers while she got ready. I guess the dickhead still has a key and she was worried he might try something.”

“I thought he was in Sweden.”

“No fuckin’ clue, mate.” Kassam shrugs. “It’s so hard to keep up.”

Bobby can see her through the window, Chelsea still glued to her side as if she has a sixth sense for Nicola’s sadness. A pure beam of sunlight, that girl is. They’re taking shots in the kitchen, sharing a laugh as Chelsea misses her mouth and spills it down the front of her dress. Bobby’s cock twitches for the umpteenth time that evening as Nicola licks the spillage from the blonde’s chest.

 _“I hope someone got that on video!”_ he can hear Chelsea shriek. Even Lottie and Rocco are laughing along, though Bobby wouldn’t be surprised if the latter had shared another joint with her as a peace offering.

The bite of the cold finally too much, Bobby stomps out his final cigarette and claps up Kassam. “Last I’m gonna mention it, but just be honest with Lottie, yeah? Even if you need time, I think it’d do her a world of good to know if she’s in with a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” the producer agrees. “Good looking out, mate.”

Bobby forces himself to smile. “You know me! Official lookout of this motley crew.”

He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he laughs. If Kassam had known him better, maybe he would’ve picked up on it, but since he doesn’t, Bobby just closes the balcony door behind him and tries to integrate back into the party. He laughs and smiles and doles out hugs as he should, and he tries not to think too hard about it when he watches Nicola and Kassam leave together in the same way they’d arrived. Instead, he shares an Uber with Lottie and makes up the couch when she crashes in his bed.

This is the problem with knowing too much and too many things he shouldn’t, Bobby thinks. Nothing brings him comfort—it all just sends his brain into overdrive.

* * *

 **READY TO REBOUND? ‘Scorned’ pop star Nicola Jordan seen leaving party with producer Kassam Kadri**   
_By Siobhan Walsh, The Sun Staff | 11 January 2020_

Bobby groans at the grey light streaming through the windows, not muted enough by the curtain fabric. He groans at the pounding in his head, the nausea blooming in his belly, the bone-dry feeling in his mouth. He groans at the sound of someone moving around his flat, doors slamming and cabinets banging in a symphony of unsubtle fury.

Vague memories of the night before come flooding back and he tries connecting the dots, drawing parallels between the way he’s feeling and the stupid shit he must’ve done last night in order to feel this way.

Excruciating hangover? _Definitely drank too much._

Smoked a few cigarettes and god knows what else? _Explains the cotton mouth._

Lottie staring down at him with dark circles under her eyes? _It was nice knowing you._

“Can I help you?” Bobby asks, his tone anything but helpful and accommodating. Yes, he loves Lottie—she’s one of the dearest friends he’s ever had—but he doesn’t love her very much _right now_ , at some unholy hour of the morning as she wears an unattractive scowl.

“Where the fuck is your paracetamol?”

Bobby sits up, full of immediate regret as his stomach sloshes angrily. Vomit is inevitable. “ _That’s_ what you’re banging around for? Paracetamol?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lottie replies. “It’s not in your nightstand or in the bathroom and this hangover has got to go.”

With a grumble, Bobby throws his legs over the side of the couch and attempts to stand on unsteady knees. He feels like a newborn deer, shot out of the womb and expected to walk even though he’s never done it before. Logically, he knows how walking works—one foot in front of the other, hope you have enough muscle mass to keep you upright—but his brain is clouded by his hangover. There’s nothing but pain behind his eyelids, the synapses of his brain refusing to connect in silent protest.

“I can’t get up,” he moans. “Lozza, help me.”

Unsympathetic to the point of cruelty, Lottie grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him into a standing position. She doesn’t even bother grabbing onto his shoulders to steady him, she just looks at him with an expectant stare because it’s nearing ten-o’clock in the morning and they’re both hungover with the bottle of aspirin still nowhere to be found.

“Get it together, Bobby,” she scolds him. “What, you’ve never stood up before? Fuck, you’re fucking useless, mate.”

“I’m not useless, ya prick, I’m _dying_.”

Throwing her hands in the air, Lottie plops herself onto the couch, still looking up at Bobby with that expectant stare. “Are you always this melodramatic?” she inquires.

“You know I am. I’ve got nothing else going for me.”

“And I usually love that about you, Bobs, but right now I’m _this_ close to murdering you if you don’t get me something for this hangover.”

Two pills, one glass of water, and a giant fry-up later, both Bobby and Lottie are feeling marginally more human. The pair had discussed the article in The Sun about Nicola and Kassam, and Bobby could tell the Aussie had been trying to prevent herself from having another breakdown at the thought of them being together on the low. He told her about the conversation he’d had with the producer the night before—well, just the parts about Henrik and only as much of it as he could remember—and reassured her to the best of his ability there’s nothing going on there.

Except he doesn’t really know that, does he? Would it be crazy for Nicola to date her producer not even a week after splitting from her fiancé? Sure, but people have done crazier things when they’ve got grief clouding their judgment. And all Kassam had said was that he liked Lottie but the timing wasn’t right. He hadn’t said a word about Nicola, but Bobby figures if _he_ was sleeping with her, he’d keep his gob shut too.

 **Nicola**   
Are you free today?

 **Bobby**   
Bold of u to assume I can sit upright for extended periods

 **Nicola**   
LMAO   
Don’t be a piss baby Bobs

 **Bobby**   
Why are u bullying me? I’m telling Hope   
What do u need tho? I might be free if ur nice

 **Nicola**   
Writing sesh at mine   
Lmk when you’re human again, I’ll have Stirling fetch you in the chariot

Stirling’s _chariot_ is, of course, a blacked-out Range Rover with windows so thick Bobby feels like the Prime Minister every time he rides in it. This is how it always goes when Bobby’s summoned to Nicola’s, because no one just _shows up_ at her home. There are protocols for that sort of thing, and those protocols always include being picked up by her driver and whisked away to whatever humble abode of hers she’s staying in at the time.

But Stirling’s good people, simple and unassuming and relatively normal in comparison to the other personalities in Nicola’s circle. The first time he and Bobby had met, they bonded over being Scottish and missing home and the horrific state of London’s traffic. It’s not much different this time, as the two greet one another while Bobby clambers into the back seat. Even the driver is up to date on the day’s gossip and is eager to discuss it with anyone willing to listen.

“What d’ye think about it?” Stirling asks.

Bobby just shrugs, pretending it doesn’t cause him physical pain to say, “Kaz is a good lad either way.”

If his discomfort is obvious, Stirling’s kind enough to not mention it.

The drive takes the better part of two hours. Bobby’s quiet as he tries to swallow his exhaustion and the remnants of his hangover, praying to anyone listening to keep motion sickness far, far away from him. The world whizzes by in a composite of colours—greens and browns and greys, the occasional streak of colour from a passing car.

Stirling gently nudges him awake. Groggily, Bobby thanks him and exits the car, completely unfamiliar with his surroundings. He’s followed Nicola all over the world, but he’s never been here. A sprawling, modern cabin is tucked into the forestry in front of him, its black exterior contrasting sharply against the white snow surrounding him. Aside from the occasional chirping bird, it’s dead quiet—the exact kind of place you’d want to retreat to when the world around you is chaotic and too loud.

“Nicola will let me know when you’re ready,” Stirling finally says, pulling Bobby from his reverie.

Snow crunches under Bobby’s boots as he makes his way to the door, not at all surprised to find a gargantuan man with a buzzcut taking up the frame as he nears.

“Uh, hello—”

“Is Nicola expecting you?” the man asks in lieu of a greeting, his hazel eyes boring straight into Bobby’s soul.

Bobby nods, moving to fetch his phone from his pocket to prove it. A large hand quickly reaches out to grab his arm. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Huh?” Once his two braincells connect, he lets out a nervous chuckle. “Oh! _Oh._ I’m not—I don’t, like, have a gun or anything,” Bobby offers. “I help Nic write songs sometimes. I’ve even written a song for One Direction before! Y’know, the boy band—”

“He’s fine, Binski,” Nicola says, appearing in the doorway beside him. “This is Bobby. Bobby, this is the new head of my security team.”

Bobby can’t help but snort. “Binski? You look like the fucking Hulk and your name is _Binski_?”

A deep frown appears on the man’s face. “My _name_ is Jakub Zabinski, but this one thinks it’s a right laugh to call me Binski as if I were—”

“Jar Jar Binks from _Star Wars_?” Bobby finishes for him.

“No—”

“Binny and the Jets?” Bobby gets an especially loud laugh out of his own joke.

“ _No_.”

“Anonymous-yet-extremely-popular street artist and political activist _Binksy_?”

Jakub’s jaw clenches. “You know what—”

Nicola, having spent the last few seconds staring at the two men, cocks an eyebrow. “Bobby, didn’t you spend all morning whinging about your hangover?”

“Yup,” Bobby says, his shit-eating grin still plastered across his face. He may still be hungover, but sometimes he just can’t help himself.

Nicola gives Jakub a light whack on his bicep, wordlessly requesting he step aside to let Bobby in. Once he crosses the threshold into the cabin, his eyes roll inwardly. It’s more of the same, just like Lucas’s penthouse had been. Sterile and monochromatic, as if it’d been designed by someone who’d never seen colours before, and that same person had decided to live in it yet purposely deprive it of any character and life.

“Nice place,” Bobby says despite himself, marveling at the ceiling-height fireplace in the center of the living area. He goes to stand in front of it, his fingertips numb from the cold. “How long have you had it?”

“I had Chelsea rent it out for the rest of the month for me. I… just needed to get out of the city.”

She moves to sit on a large sectional couch, immediately pulling a soft blanket over her legs. On the coffee table in front of her is a stack of notebooks and marked-up sheets of paper, while her guitar and a wireless keyboard are propped against the far-right wall.

“Oh,” Bobby says. “Well, it’s nice.”

It’s Nicola’s turn to snort. “You hate it.”

“I don’t,” Bobby tries to argue but it falls very flat. “It’s just… uh. A bit cold, maybe?”

“What would you and Lottie say? _Weird rich people shit_?”

Bobby scratches the back of his neck as his cheeks grow warm. “Aye, sounds about right.”

Nicola shrugs. “It’s fine. It is a bit depressing, but it wasn’t easy to find a place on such short notice with this kind of privacy.”

He moves to join her on the couch, suddenly thankful that Jakub is nowhere to be found. He makes sure to sit a respectable distance away before replying. “Sometimes I forget you’re _properly_ -properly famous.”

“What? So when you think about me, I’m just, like, a little bit famous?” she jokes.

No. When Bobby thinks about her, it’s usually thick with hopeless pining energy and the occasional indecent thought. And he knows that’s kind of creepy and rude to do to a friend, to think about her like _that_ , but he tells himself it’s just curiosity.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “Like, logically I _know_ you’re famous, but you’re just Nicola to me.”

Her smile reaches her eyes. “It’s always nice to hear that. Sometimes people tell me that and I know they’re just chatting a lot of shit, but it sounds sincere coming from you.”

“Well, you know me—the sincerest lad around.”

Nicola eyes him but says nothing, opting instead to grab one of the notebooks in front of her. She thumbs through it until she finds the page she wants and lays it across her lap. “I want to finish that song I texted you about the other day.”

Bobby digs out his phone from his pocket, opening their text thread to find the two lines of lyrics she had sent him a few days ago. “Yeah, ‘course. Let’s do it.”

As she stands, she hands the open notebook to Bobby and moves to fetch her guitar. In front of him, in Nicola’s neat scrawl, are the two lines she’d sent him the other day:

 _I didn’t have it in myself to go with grace,_ _  
_ _And you’re the hero flying around, saving face_

“So, uh… what kind of vibe are you going for?”

She perches on the arm of the couch, a plectrum stuck between her teeth as she adjusts the tuning on the guitar. “I don’t know,” she admits, moving to strum a few times. “I couldn’t even tell you the last time I wrote a sad song.”

Truth be told, Bobby can’t remember either. He remembers bits and pieces of lyrics about angst and betrayal but can’t remember who they’d been about. He remembers an argument on Twitter but can’t remember who it’d been with. But he can’t remember the words he’d written—if any—to navigate her through those moments.

He supposes it doesn’t matter now, when things are as bad as they can possibly be. There will be more words about betrayal, of course, but much more painful this time around. The betrayal of a husband-to-be cuts just a bit deeper than that of a friend and, in time, it’ll become The Event, the moment in Nicola’s life that all other painful experiences will compare to. _Sure, it’s bad, but is it as bad as The Event?_ Perhaps he’s gotten lucky, but Bobby’s only benchmark for that kind of thing had been his parents’ divorce.

Sure, he’s been in relationships that have failed, but nothing crazy. Most of his partners had found it difficult to keep up with his schedule, the months away from home, spent in different countries with a very beautiful, very rich, very famous woman. While Bobby has never been prone to jealousy, he can understand it, so most of his relationships end on somewhat good terms with no hard feelings. Just another thing to write off as a side-effect of the job.

“How are you—um, coping?” Bobby finally asks, keeping his eyes focused on the pen twirling between his fingers.

Nicola doesn’t look up, either. “Are you asking as a friend or as a writer?”

The implication stings, no matter how hard he tries not to take it personally. _I’m fucking in love with you, of course I’m asking as a friend_ , he wants to scream at the top of his lungs. Instead, he just says, “Nicola,” in a tone that’s chastising but clearly offended.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know.” There’s a brief moment of awkward silence before she sighs and sets the guitar down on the couch, not nearly as careful as Bobby thinks she should be. “I’m, um—” She wrings her hands together, the absence of her ring extremely obvious, still staring ahead at the glass walls that make up the entire exterior of the cabin, awarding them with what would be a gorgeous view of a lake during any other time than the dead of winter. “I’m not doing great,” she finally says.

“D’you want to talk about it?”

“I probably should, right?”

Bobby shrugs. “That’s up to you, lass. It’s your business to tell.”

“I don’t… I don’t even know how I feel. One minute I’m okay, but the next I’m filled with this horrible anger that I don’t know what to do with, and I’m sad all the fucking time. I feel like I’ve gone absolutely mental. I can’t keep track of myself.”

“You’ve just gone through a really shit thing,” he sympathizes, “I think it’s normal if you don’t feel like yourself for a while.”

A deep frown settles across her face. “I can’t give that bastard the satisfaction of knowing I’m like this. He’s already taken enough from me—he doesn’t get to be the person that robbed me of myself, too.”

Her words rattle around Bobby’s chest like a pinball, hitting every nook and cranny of past pain and stubbornness and pride. And, even though he contemplates his next words very carefully and knows they’re probably a bad idea, he feels like they’re important to say anyway. “I think he already is, Nic.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath that isn’t Bobby’s. And, yes, now he knows for certain he said too much. Just a tad more empathy would’ve done wonders for him and his apparent lack of social etiquette. Now, instead of two friends talking amongst themselves and confiding in one another, the only sound he can hear is the crackling of the fireplace.

“I can’t say I enjoyed hearing that, but you’re right,” Nicola admits, her eyes finally meeting Bobby’s. All he can see is pain. “Kinda crazy how one person can be all of that to you, isn’t it? All the good _and_ all the bad.”

“Only if they’re already a bad person,” Bobby says. “Good people don’t hurt people the way he has.”

Nicola scoffs. “Well, it’d be really bloody nice if they came with a warning. _Stay away from me, I’m a massive fucking dickhead!_ Besides,” she sighs, picking at a rogue fiber on the blanket, “I don’t think people are as black and white as that. Good people do bad things all the time.”

Unsure of what else to say, Bobby just shrugs and says, “Aye, maybe.”

“I mean, it wasn’t _all_ bad,” she continues. “We were together nearly four years and almost all of that time was really good.”

Bobby can’t help it as he cocks an eyebrow. “I remember. I wrote a lot of fluffy love songs for you, you know.”

Nicola laughs ruefully. “Yeah, I guess you did. He hated them, by the way. Did I ever tell you that?”

More than anything else Henrik has pulled over the last few weeks, this angers Bobby the most. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. He said he felt weird having songs written about him. He asked me once if I could write about something else.”

What a fucking bampot. Bobby had been there, had seen firsthand how hard Nicola had worked on every song. How much blood, sweat, and tears she put into everything she did—how maniacal she was about it all being perfect, because she loved Henrik so much she felt like anything less than perfection would be an insult. She fell over herself to build empires for a man who found pleasure in tearing them down.

 _There’d been problems for a long time_ . Bobby remembers Henrik’s words from that interview he’d done, the one that perfectly encapsulated how up his own arse he was. _The only problem had been you_ , Bobby retorts.

“Well, fuck him, then,” he says, his words laced with more fury than he anticipated. “We did a lot of great work together, so fuck him. He didn’t deserve any of it.”

“Hindsight,” is Nicola’s only response as she returns her attention to the guitar, back to absentmindedly strumming chords.

Staring down at those two familiar lines of lyrics, the ones that’d been burning a hole in Bobby’s head since Nicola had sent them to him, he has an idea.

“What about a revenge song?”

“Revenge?” she asks, the guitar making a garish sound as she strums something that is certainly _not_ a chord. “Like, what kind of revenge song? I’m not releasing a true crime podcast as a song.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about, like, _murder_ . Just… It’s kind of weird, but hear me out, okay? It’s very _metaphorical._ ”

She eyes him suspiciously. “Go on, then.”

“Okay. So, to me, I see this as your phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes moment, right? You’re saying goodbye to your old life, your old self, your old relationship, so let’s…” He takes a deep breath before releasing it, an infectious grin taking over his face. “Let’s throw you a fucking funeral, Nicola.”

“A funeral?” she repeats, as if the word is foreign to her. “Like—like I’m _dead_?”

“Aye.”

Her face contorts—first rejection, then neutrality, and then finally she seems to chew on the thought and concludes her thinking with a shrug. “We can give it a go.”

They work for hours. Writing, erasing, laughing, crying, getting Jakub to get them takeaway, writing some more. In time, Nicola eventually spills every scandalous detail of her and Henrik’s break up. She’d been in New York when she found out, just like Lottie and Chelsea had said, but he hadn’t known that _Lucas_ had been the one to tell her. Another one of his obnoxious penthouses was in the same building as Henrik’s and he’d had the privilege of watching the entire scene unfold from his balcony over a mug of morning tea. He’d watched Blake try to hail a cab as the paparazzi hounded her, asking her question after question about why she was doing the walk of shame from an engaged man’s bachelor pad.

Henrik didn’t call her until two days later. He couldn’t gather the courage to face her, apparently, now that the entire country knew what he’d done. And then, as if reciting an essay in front of his primary school class, with absolutely no tact or remorse, he admitted to everything he’d been accused of.

Once she was back in London, there’d been a lot of fights. A lot more accusations thrown around. A lot of bitterness and grief and disbelief. They were meant to be getting _married_ this year, not extracting themselves from each other’s lives. Not hurling insults and packing their belongings and acting like they’d never loved one another at all. Everything felt foreign and wrong, because they weren’t the couple who fought, who accused one another of things they couldn’t unsay.

So, really, it was no wonder why she’d asked to scrap the album. There was nothing left between her and Henrik to salvage, and all those pretty, fanciful words she and Bobby had written about being in love no longer applied. Perhaps they never truly did.

Eventually, as the world goes dark and they stoke the fireplace for the umpteenth time, Nicola sits back with a satisfied grin. Bobby shakes out his dominant hand and stares down at the notebook still in his lap, now full of words and scratched-out lines and tiny doodles in the corners. It’s not completely finished, but they’ve got a whole verse completed, so it’s a start.

“I’m gonna send this to Kaz,” she says, fetching her phone from the coffee table. “I’ll do a group chat with the three of us so you’re in the loop for whenever we finish it.”

Bobby nods his permission. As much as he wants to ask about that morning’s article—the one about her and Kassam—he stays quiet. Any relationship of Nicola’s is only his business to the extent of writing about it, and even that’s a stretch. She’s talented enough to get by on her own; or, if Bobby were to look at things much more realistically, there’s no shortage of songwriters willing to work with her. He’s always known just how replaceable he is.

But, looking down at what they’ve written, all those ugly feelings get pushed to the backburner as pride takes over. Bobby’s always been a proud man. Sometimes it contrasts sharply with his nerves and bouts of insecurity, but his work is always something he’s never had to second-guess.

 _We gather here, we line up, weeping in a sunlit room_ _  
_ _And if I’m on fire, you’ll be made of ashes, too_ _  
_ _Even on my worst day, did I deserve, babe_ _  
_ _All the hell you gave me?_ _  
_ _Because I loved you, I swear I loved you_ _  
_ _Till my dying day_

It’s a win for the day. And, as Stirling drives him back to a flat that now feels empty and inadequate, he tallies up the rest of the wins for the day. Nicola had seemed warmer, like the life had returned to her. He’d gotten her to laugh, to smile the way she used to. She’d spoken candidly about her relationship; its highs and lows and the ultimate demise, she trusted him. Most importantly, at least to Bobby—she allowed him in her space, allowed him to get close when others would be rebuffed long ago.

As he collapses in bed, he feels weightless. Tension rolls off his shoulders and he looks forward to a peaceful, satisfying sleep—the first in weeks. And then he makes the mistake of opening Instagram and seeing Nicola’s most recent post: a video of her sat in the amber glow of the fireplace, her keyboard on her lap, singing lines about a heartache she’s not sure she’ll be willing to see through to the end.

 _Warm water rises_ _  
_ _It still feels like I can’t stop crying_ _  
_ _Hold me inside it_ _  
_ _It still feels like a storm not dying_

Frustrated, Bobby throws his phone onto the bed, barely minding when it bounces off the mattress and into the wall. He doesn’t bother checking for cracks, just leaves it there to run out of battery. Were he thinking rationally, he wouldn’t see this as progress lost; wouldn’t scream into his pillow that the wins meant nothing if they were always going to be followed by setbacks. Were he thinking rationally, he’d realize he’d been right, that Nicola hadn’t laughed and smiled like that in weeks.

* * *

_Hello, loves –_

_In light of recent events, I’ve made the very difficult decision to delay the release of my next album. To be completely transparent, it’s been scrapped entirely. My team and I will spend the next few months rewriting, reworking, and rerecording. What I thought would be the happiest year of my life has already turned out to be anything but, and I simply don’t have it in myself to release what has already been finished. That said, all tour dates meant to be in support of the next album have been canceled as well. You will be refunded at point of purchase. Please know we are working as hard as we can to get these dates rescheduled as soon as possible._

_Not only will I spend the next few months—maybe even the next year or more—working on the album, I will also be taking the time to work on myself and heal. I can only hope you all understand._

_As always, I am beyond thankful for the well wishes, kind words, and love you have sent my way. I am lucky to have the support of not only family and friends, but also millions of strangers during the most difficult period of my life. I wish you all the same love, happiness, and empathy in return. I promise to keep all of you updated on any and all progress._

_Talk soon._

_With love,_ _  
_ _Nicola x_

* * *

Bobby spends the rest of January locked in the studio for sixteen hours a day.

Everything aches. The winter chill has seeped through his skin and settled in his bones, and his new-found diet of black coffee and fast food has ruined what was left of his stomach. He wakes up every morning assuming it might be his last before he drags himself into the shower, throws on another jumper, brews another pot of coffee, and forces himself out the door. Exhaustion looms around every corner, just waiting for an opportunity to seize him. Most days it’s all he can do to stay awake until lunch.

To ease everyone’s suffering, Chelsea throws a small get-together for Valentine’s Day. The décor is everything Bobby expected it to be—hearts, glitter, and more shades of pink than he ever knew existed. Even if he’s tempted to label it tacky, it’s so quintessentially _Chelsea_ that Bobby can’t help but smile.

But Nicola doesn’t show up.

Neither does Kassam.

So, what Bobby had planned on being a stress-free evening with his mates turns into his brain working overtime to convince him of things he knows aren’t true and comforting Lottie. _Again_ . And while he understands her pain it does little to make him feel better. Rejection isn’t fun for anyone, but her reluctance to let it go was beginning to grate on him. _At least Kassam likes you_ , he thinks bitterly, but comparing scars won’t do him any good.

His sour mood on full display, Chelsea sends him off before nine with a box of Love Hearts that has _Bobby_ _❤_ written on the front. He asks her to keep an eye on Lottie, and when she asks, “For what?” he doesn’t elaborate. Lottie’s already taken up enough of his time; he doesn’t think it fair to ruin Chelsea’s night, too, even if she’d happily do what he asked of her.

At home, he eats candy in bed until his teeth are stained and leaves the television off. There won’t be anything good there—well, nothing that makes him feel less alone, anyway—and he’s not much in the mood for it. He’s annoyed with Lottie, yes, but he’s also frustrated with himself. Bobby’s chronic habit of overextending himself was never meant to last. He’s supposed to have grown out of it by now. No one wants to be a pushover at 26, but when it usually matters, he decides it’s better than being nothing at all. Because that’s the catch, right? If people don’t tell _him_ their problems, they’ll just tell someone else, and Bobby won’t have a purpose then.

He drags himself to the upright piano in the living room, slumping onto the bench in a way that recalls every scolding he’s ever received for his posture. His fingers move elegantly across the keys, a loud _plonk!_ every now and then as he lets out his frustration and purposely hits the wrong chord. After his parents’ divorce, this had been his escape for a long time. Most of his youth had been spent locked in his bedroom with nothing but a couple instruments his mum had picked up second-hand and a whole lot of angst. It’d suited him back then; now, it feels a lot like coming home.

Maybe that’d been why Paisley Cuddle hadn’t worked out—he wasn’t angry enough anymore. The scars of the divorce and his dad’s absence had long since healed over. Sure, there were other things to be mad about, but growing up had put a lot of things into perspective for Bobby. He’d never be the type to sit behind a desk for eight hours a day, but maybe he was never meant to be the type to try and schlep it in a punk band, either.

He settles into a key and tempo he likes—some combination of F-sharp and D-sharp minor, then into B major, C-sharp, back into D-sharp minor and C-sharp—and pulls out his phone to record a voice memo.

“Hey, Nic,” he says, setting it next to him on the bench. “Just been plonkin’ around and figured you might like this. Let me know what you think.” Bobby plays the chords again and again until he has a recording he likes.

 **Bobby**   
What do u think of this?   
Attachment: _piano14_02_2020.m4a_

 **Nicola** **  
**Bobby wtf  
You never told me you played??   
Save that, I love it

 **Bobby**   
I’m full of surprises   
I’ll save it tho

 **Nicola**   
Are you home?   
I thought you were going to Chels’s party?

Before he can type out a response, Nicola’s wanting to FaceTime. Stupidly, Bobby tries to smooth down his hair and the wrinkles in his t-shirt, forgetting he’s bathed in the dim light of his living room.

“Hey,” he says nonchalantly as he answers. “What’s up?”

Nicola’s beaming on her side of the screen, her face obscured by a muddy-looking facemask. “I’m mad at you!” she jokes. “I can’t believe you never told me you played piano.”

“I’m sure I must’ve told you once or twice.”

“You surely have _not_. Now play me an actual song so there’s proof you’re not a liar. That voice memo you sent me could’ve been anyone.”

“Wow,” he laughs. “Is this why you FaceTimed me? And here I thought you wanted to see my beautiful face.”

She rolls her eyes. “That I can’t even see. It’s really dark—are you in your mum’s basement?”

“ _Wow._ I’m hanging up on you. I don’t deserve this kind of treatment.” He doesn’t hang up, but he does move across the room to turn on the light. Then he promptly walks over to the wall that houses all the plaques and awards he’s accumulated over the years. “Oh, whoops! I meant to show you the wall _without_ all my accolades. Let me go back to the piano. I wouldn’t want you to feel bad about yourself.”

“It’s gonna take more than your 100-percent attendance award from primary to make me jealous, mate.”

Bobby snorts. “Fuck off. I’ve not flaked on you once, have I?” She rolls her eyes again. “Wait, I know what’ll make you jealous.” He shows her a trophy he got from a go-kart track on his birthday.

This makes her roar with laughter. “Have you really got that rubbish next to a fucking _Grammy_? What is wrong with you?”

He gives her an exaggerated frown. “I like it. It’s got my name on it.”

Back at the piano, he props up his phone against the upper panel and begins to play “Oh My Darling, Clementine” but changes the words.

 _Oh my darling, oh my darling_ _  
_ _Oh my darling, Nicola_ _  
_ _You were jealous of my a-wards_ _  
_ _Dreadful sorry, Nicola_

He watches her face on the screen closely, sees every upturn of her mouth and the way her nostrils flare when she’s trying not to laugh. He sees how blindingly white her teeth are once she finally does, can practically see the gears in her brain working to produce something she can fire back at him. For a moment, all of those things help him forget it’s Valentine’s Day and they’re both spending it on FaceTime with each other—Bobby because he’s hopeless, and Nicola for obvious reasons.

Instead of applauding his performance, Nicola immediately says, “That doesn’t count.”

Bobby is affronted. “What? It most certainly does count.”

“Bobby, six-year-olds can play that song.”

“Then go find a six-year-old and prove it.” He cocks an eyebrow as a challenge. “Go ‘head. I’ll wait.”

“Where am I meant to find a six-year-old at nearly eleven-o’clock on a Friday? Play something else.”

Bobby gives the camera a very pointed look. “Any requests, then? And don’t say ‘La campanella’ because I can’t play it.”

“Damn, _okay_ , Bobby! I’m impressed.” Nicola laughs. “You can sing, you can play piano, and you just casually name-dropped one of the most difficult piano etudes ever written.”

He can’t help the blush that spreads across his face. It’s not every day—or ever, really—that someone of Nicola’s magnitude compliments him. “I can’t sing. Wait, how do _you_ know it’s the most difficult piano etude ever written?”

“What do you think they were teaching us at the BRIT School? Pottery?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you went there.”

She smiles. “I’m sure I must’ve told you once or twice.”

They make small talk as Bobby plays whatever song comes to mind. She tells him about her time at school—what she learned, notable classmates she had—and Bobby talks a bit about his band. Paisley Cuddle isn’t a secret to anyone in Nicola’s circle. It’d been one of the first things they’d bonded over and it proved useful when a song needed a bit of an edge, because there was Bobby, a veteran of the Glaswegian punk scene, ready to dole out advice.

But he talks about it sometimes like it’d just been a hobby and not the most important thing in his life at the time. Paisley Cuddle had been his outlet, both creatively and emotionally, and therefore his crutch. Being able to hop on stage after a shit day and scream himself hoarse is a high he’s still chasing and trying to replace.

“Okay, love, I’ve gotta run,” she begins, and Bobby doesn’t hear what she says after that. Something about having to wash off her facemask, but all he can focus on is her calling him _love_. “Bobby?”

“Aye, sorry. Have a good night, lass,” he replies, plastering a smile across his face even though he still hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You, too.” She matches his smile. “Thank you for spending it with me. I appreciate it.”

Then his phone beeps and she’s gone, his home screen filling the space where her face had just been. He feels her absence immediately.

 **Nicola**   
What other secrets are you hiding from me?? :-P

* * *

 _Nicola Jordan_ _  
_ _From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia_

 **_Nicola Jordan Soko_ ** _(born 23 November 1994), known professionally as Nicola Jordan, is an English singer-songwriter. After graduating from the BRIT School in 2012, Jordan signed a recording contract with Columbia Records…_

Bobby huffs, impatient to get to a part he doesn’t know already. Since Nicola’s text, it’s turned into a bit of a game between them, scouring the internet and social media for little-known facts about one another and discussing them over a nightly FaceTime call.

And it’s been much easier for Bobby, considering Nicola’s a household name globally and there’s no shortage of fan-run pages dedicated to her. Nicola’s been limited to searching Bobby’s name on the ASCAP website and grilling him on all the artists he’s written songs for and never told her about.

When he’s not overthinking it, their conversations feel natural, like they’ve moved into ‘Actual Friends’ territory instead of ‘Friendly Coworkers.’ They’re conversations he’d have with Lottie.

He skims the _Early Life_ section of her Wiki page despite already knowing most of it. She’d told him all about growing up in Painswick and never feeling like she fit in there and how no one expected her to make it. She’d told him about having never met her biological father and that being the reason she dropped her last name professionally, because even though her stepfather had formally adopted her when she was twelve, it hadn’t felt right to change it. She’d told him how her mum had been the one to foster her interest in music, dragging her to piano lessons twice a week and shoving an acoustic guitar in her arms when she was old enough to hold one.

He skips the _Career_ section altogether. Sure, he knows most of that story, but it’d involved a lot of luck, a lot of being in the right place at the right time and doing the right things on a whim. Those same opportunities hadn’t been available to him with his own music career, so he doesn’t bother pretending it doesn’t sting.

There’s nothing in _Personal Life_ he doesn’t already know—nothing he hasn’t already written about. Still, he can’t help the way his chest tightens as he reads about Henrik all over again. And whether it’s out of empathy or shame, he’s not sure.

He’s not going to be _that_ guy—the one who lies in wait for his moment to shine, to come out on top as the hero. That’s not who he is.

So, he exits out of the Wikipedia page with a long sigh, ignores the text thread he’s got going on with Nicola, and shoves his head under his pillow.

* * *

She’s strumming an acoustic guitar, quietly singing along to “April Come She Will,” and it’s soft and haunting in all the ways it typically is when Bobby hears her like this. As if there’s a depth and meaning to the words that only she understands, has _felt_ , and he wonders which lyrics it is this time.

 _September, I’ll remember_ _  
_ _A love once new has now grown old_

Laughter brightens her face as Garfunkel, sat at Kassam’s feet, shakes his large head and splashes drool on the cuff of his jeans for the tenth time that afternoon. The producer retches; tries really hard to be respectful of Nicola’s gigantic dog as he bites back an obvious remark and bemoans both the cost of the jeans themselves _and_ his preemptive dry-cleaning bill.

It’s the lightest the studio has felt in months. Feels almost like they’ve finally shaken off the scars of the winter, of The Event—though Bobby knows those wounds will be felt for a long time.

It’s the first time he’s seen her in person since the stress of February. Of course, he’s seen her on FaceTime, her smile always infectious even when he knew it was forced, but today she looks lighter, too. Carefree. Mostly unshackled from the worst of her pain and guilt. He can see it in her body language, feel it in the air around them. Today, things are okay, and that’s good enough.

“Nicola, get your dog,” Kassam says in a low voice, though there’s a smidge of obvious panic, staring down at the animal in question as he gnaws on his trainers.

To his dismay, she merely snorts in response. “He knows you don’t like him.”

Kaz rolls his eyes. “He’s already ruined my jeans—”

“And your trainers. What were they, about four-hundred quid?” Bobby chimes in, unhelpful as always.

“Four-hundred?” Kassam replies, as if such a price is beneath him. “Yeah, bruv, let’s go with that.”

Rolling her eyes, she sets the guitar aside and stands, cracking her back as she does. “Fine, you giant baby. I’ll see if Chelsea can’t take him back to mine.” With another blinding smile, she bends slightly and slaps her palms on her knees. “C’mon, Funk, let’s go see if we can’t find something of Kaz’s for you to piss in. Really give him something to whinge about.”

“Oi!” he shouts, spinning around in his chair. “You better fucking not!” Nicola laughs as Garfunkel follows her out a side door. “Nicola! _Nic_ —do you think she’ll really do it?” he asks, turning to Bobby.

“Aye, probably.”

“Fuck,” he swears, nearly stumbling over his feet as he dashes after her.

Laughing to himself, Bobby enjoys the newfound peace and quiet as he continues jotting down words into his notebook. They’d managed to finish another two songs since the end of January, those long days in the studio paying off tremendously, and even though they’re under no sort of time constraint, they’d all agreed to take advantage of the productivity and inspiration while it lasted.

As he hears the side door open and close, he says, “All good?” without looking up from his lap.

Once he does, all the air gets sucked from his lungs.

Though he hasn’t felt it in years, he remembers this feeling: the flushed skin, hands jittery from adrenaline, white-hot anger burning low in his belly. He’s on his feet before he can think twice about it, all but squaring up for… what? To defend her?

“You’ve got a lot of fuckin’ nerve,” he says, words clipped.

Henrik shrugs, not registering Bobby as a threat whatsoever. “I’m not here for you, so I’m not all that fussed about your opinion of me.”

“Maybe you should be.”

Henrik arches an eyebrow. “And why is that? Are you finally ready to come off the subs bench and make the move you’ve been plotting the last four years?”

“You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough, going around acting like a fuckin’ dobber. D’ye really wanna try it with me? Because I don’t mind squaring up and you can go out there and explain why you’ve had your fuckin’ head knocked off.”

Perhaps it’s because Bobby is extremely Scottish and nearly unintelligible when he’s searing mad, but Henrik backs down immediately. As ready as Bobby is to knock him out, he knows Henrik really hadn’t come here for him. He came here to talk to Nicola, to finally make her see his side after avoiding him for so long, and he doesn’t imagine he’ll leave without at least trying.

“She’s actually happy today,” Bobby says, his words still laced with rage.

Henrik shrugs. “That’s good. Maybe she’ll finally—”

“No, it isn’t.” At his sides, Bobby’s fists clench and unclench as he tries to steady his breathing. “Why would you want to ruin her again? Once isn’t enough? You _really_ have to reopen that wound and shove your fingers in it?”

Then, quieter and more desperate, Bobby says, “Please, just let her move on. After all the shit you’ve put her through, you owe it to her to let her heal.”

If Bobby had managed to get through to him, it’s forgotten in an instant as the door swings open again. Much like Bobby had, Kassam looks like a deer in headlights, realization dawning on him much slower than it takes pure shock and anger to overcome him, too.

“Ya Ibn el Sharmouta,” he swears, eyes dragging over Henrik’s frame. His piercing gaze turns to Bobby. “Did you let him in here?”

“Mate, really?” Bobby retorts. “I was about ready to put him in hospital and you’re asking _me_ that?”

Henrik scoffs. “I doubt—”

“Shut up,” Kassam bites. “Va te faire foutre. What the _fuck_ —why are you here? Fous-toi.”

As Kassam descends into hysteria, Bobby nearly comes out of his skin as he hears the door creak open again. This time, there’s no guess as to who’s striding their way in, blissfully unaware of the pain ready to greet her.

Bobby watches her spiral in stages, the sound of Kassam’s shouting nothing but a buzzing in his ears.

He sees the subtle way her eyes widen—first disbelief, then shock and panic.

He sees the downward tug of her mouth, almost like she wants to cry out, repeating _no, God no, please_ over and over. Like she wants to scream, give voice to all her heartbreak and anguish, every deep-seated insecurity dredged up because of the man in front of her.

He sees her fingernails dig into the palm of her hand, imagines the half-moon indentations left behind, feels the sting in his skin as if it’s his own.

He sees the breath she sucks in, desperate to keep it quiet, to not give away how close she is to coming undone. And Bobby wants to reach out, wants to grab her and wrap her in his arms and fight away all her demons, but he’s just as frozen as she is. Understands the repercussions of this situation before she has to live through them.

He feels his heart break.

Until the day he dies, Bobby will never understand why she looked to him first. Of everyone in that room, she searched for solace in _him_ . And he tries to tell her—tries to will his voice to work, tries to tell her _please, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay, I won’t let anything happen to you,_ but he can’t. There’s so much anger in him that he doesn’t trust himself.

“You don’t get to do this,” he says instead, his eyes still trained on Nicola— _just keep looking at me, keep your eyes on me, I’m here—_ as he speaks to Henrik, voice steady and sure. “You don’t get to take whatever you want from her. She owes you nothing.”

“Bobby—” she starts to say, his name sounding like a prayer on her lips.

God, he’s so fucking angry. “What do you want, huh?” He demands, his body angled toward Henrik in all the wrong ways. “You want forgiveness? You want your little fucking redemption arc? You want to be the good guy now?” He’s screaming. When did he start screaming? “Is that what you want? You want self-preservation after you sank your own fucking ship?”

He’s going to absorb every ounce of pain from her, he knows. He’s going to take it and he’s going to revel in it, because Bobby knows anger. He _deserves_ it, and she doesn’t. He’s going to crawl into her heart and he’s going to pluck every bit of anguish from her; he’s going to fold it into himself, embed it under his skin; he’s going to set her free.

“You don’t deserve to even fucking _look_ at her.”

Henrik says something in response, his lips curled into a sneer as he does, but all Bobby sees is Nicola.

He sees her eyes soften in understanding that this isn’t only her fight, that Bobby is willing to do it with her.

He sees her lips part as she breathes, lighter now, the corners almost tugging upward to smile at him—a smile reserved only for him.

He sees her palm flatten against her chest, right over her heart.

He doesn’t know what to do with the rage, with the unfairness of it all, especially as the room goes silent and wide eyes stare back at him. Doesn’t know how to make his hands stop trembling, how to expend the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Doesn’t know what he’s doing at all, really, because everything is different now. He took the script and ripped it up, rewrote the ending, and now they’re all without direction, no cues.

He didn’t say _I’m in love with you,_ but he did say _I’m willing to follow you into battle, I’m willing to shield you_ (is that better? worse?), and there’s no taking it back.

Do you make those sorts of declarations for a _friend_?

Nicola doesn’t look at him as she asks Henrik, “Why are you here?” The timbre of her voice jolts Bobby back to January, takes him back to watching a broken, defeated woman navigate her heartbreak.

She can’t go back there, can’t be that low again. She just _can’t,_ and Bobby almost thinks that he won’t allow it, but it’s not his call to make. He has no stake in her life at all, and even if she knows he’d go to war for her, it’d be just as easy to let the man who made such a mess of her be the one to put her back together, piece by piece.

“Älskade, you _know_ why.”

 _Don’t, please,_ he wants to scream. _Don’t do this._

“You did this,” she responds, just enough of an edge to give Bobby a glimmer of hope. “ _You_ , not me, so you’re gonna have to give me more than that.”

“Of course,” Henrik says softly, risking a step closer, “and I _will_ , but I’d rather not do it… here.”

Kassam snorts—a raucous, disbelieving sound that leaves no question as to where his loyalties lie—as he says, “Mate, you’re unbelievable. The absolute shit you’ve pulled, and now—”

“Kaz, please don’t.” Nicola sighs, her hands wringing together, eyes still avoiding Bobby’s desperate gaze. Finally, she nods at Henrik. “You’re only getting twenty minutes of my time.”

All Bobby can think is that he does a convincing job at pretending his world doesn’t fall apart as those words leave her lips. And he knows, he knows, he _knows_ he has no right to feel like this; has no say, she’s not his, never was and never will be, they’re friends (are they?), they work together—

“Nicola.”

How can she allow this after everything Henrik has done—has _said_ about her? The embarrassment, the betrayal. The nights she joined Bobby on FaceTime and tried desperately to hide her puffy eyes. All the words she’s written.

“ _Nicola_ ,” he repeats, trying to sound certain and strong as his voice cracks with desperation.

“Bobby, it’s okay—”

To her left, Henrik’s wearing a shit-eating grin. “Might as well just tell her, mate. Could be your last chance.”

She turns to him, brow furrowed. “Tell me what?”

He tries to shrug it off, no idea what Henrik could possibly be talking about, but he’s paralysed. _Say something_ , he pleads with himself, but nothing happens. No words, no movement. And, god, there’s so much he wants to say, both to Nicola and to Henrik, but he can’t.

Finally, a weak smile and even weaker words. “Nothing.”

It’s not very convincing, he knows this, and he thinks he might get away with it, might be able to brush it off as Henrik trying to deflect blame onto someone else despite his own transgressions, except the smug prick just clicks his tongue and says, “Well, if he’s not going to tell you, someone should.”

Kassam, bless him, tries to stop it with a very pointed, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but Bobby still feels all the air leave his lungs as Henrik says—

“Nicola, he’s in love with you.”

Really, he should be upset at his agency being taken away, at the self-satisfied way Henrik says it instead of the way she deserves to hear it—with tact and respect and sincerity—but mostly he just feels… relief. A dash of horror, too, if he’s being honest, but it’s out there. Someone else has done the hardest part for him.

“What?” Nicola asks, her gaze caught between him and Henrik. “ _Bobby_? No—”

Henrik laughs softly. “Nicola, come on. Why do you think I didn’t like any of those songs? _Think._ ”

There’s the anger again. It’s white-hot around the edges, threatens to seep back under his skin and set his whole body on fire. Outing him is one thing—Bobby learned to take the hits a long time ago, knows how to get back up—but to set him up as the antagonist is another. Bobby didn’t do this, didn’t create this mess, wasn’t the cause.

“Be very careful what you say next, pal.”

The Swede ignores him. “Nic, he didn’t write them _for_ you. They’re _about_ you.”

The silence that overtakes the room is jarring. Bobby can barely hear himself breathe, but if he could he’s sure it’d come out jagged and labored. Everyone’s staring at him, expectant gazes that send him spiraling deeper, and he wonders if this is how it feels to suffocate—somehow better and worse than he ever thought it could feel.

“Bobby?” Nicola asks, and he doesn’t deserve the patience in her eyes.

Because he knows what she must be thinking: that it’d all been for show. That he was just lying in wait for his turn. That his friendship had always been marred with ulterior, distasteful motives.

“It’s—it isn’t—” He pauses, sucks in a breath that hurts when it hits the back of his teeth, and tries again. “I didn’t—”

_It isn’t what you think._

_I didn’t write those songs about you._

_It isn’t how he’s saying._

_I didn’t want you to find out like this._

Understanding blooms on her face, replacing that patient, kind gaze. It leaves Bobby scrambling for purchase, the same look he’d seen all those months ago when she was working through her grief now slowly returning. He wants to scream, wants apologies to spill from his mouth until his throat is raw.

“We can talk later, yeah?” she asks, demeanor desperate for clarity.

All Bobby can do is nod before she disappears.

It takes one sympathetic look from Kassam for all of Bobby’s conviction to crumble and he leaves, too.

* * *

Sitting across from him is weird, Nicola thinks. She used to find comfort in his presence—love, respect, acceptance. Now, she finds none of those things. Doesn’t feel the same warmth emanating from him that she used to. There’s a stranger sitting in front of her; someone she doesn’t know.

Perhaps someone she never truly did.

“You have twenty minutes,” she reminds him.

Henrik nearly scoffs. “I don’t think this is a twenty-minute conversation.”

“Hm, no,” she agrees, “I suppose explaining the last three months of your bullshit is going to take a lot longer than that.” She makes a show of pulling out her phone. “I’ll tell Chelsea to clear my schedule.”

Of course, she doesn’t. It’d take Jakub (or Hope, if she’s being honest) all of fifteen seconds to come barreling through the door and grab him up. And, truth be told, she’s not all that sure it’d make her feel better. Chaos seems to follow Henrik wherever he goes lately, and it seems to have culminated in this moment. Not much else she can do besides get through it.

“My bullshit?” Henrik parrots, his eyebrows knitting together hard enough to leave a crease. “You want to sit here and insult me when you’re not much better?”

Nicola chokes on nothing, the shock of his words stuck in her throat. “I’m sorry?”

“You were just waiting, weren’t you? I just gave you the excuse you needed.”

“To do _what_? What the fuck are you on about?” Anger seizes her. “You can’t just show up here and chat shit, Henrik.” God his name sounds foreign in her mouth. “First Bobby, now this—”

At the mention of Bobby’s name, Henrik seems to go stiff. “I’m not apologizing for that.”

She gives him an incredulous look. “Maybe you should? Might be a good start.”

The blond huffs, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back in his chair. “For what? I didn’t say anything that isn’t true.”

“Your self-righteous indignation is not nearly as cute as you think it is.”

“My _what_?”

Nicola ignores him. “Even _if_ what you said about Bobby is true, it wasn’t your place to say.”

“Nic—”

“You said it out of spite,” she continues, “ _not_ because you care about me.”

“Hjärtat, I _do_ care about you.” A single eyebrow raises in challenge, which seems to frustrate him. “You know I do. Just because I—” Henrik pauses, unable to find the proper phrase. “I made a mistake. I know that. But it’s not like it was easy for me, you know? Having to watch someone else be in love with you.”

“Fuck’s sake,” she retorts, unable to help herself as she rolls her eyes. “Is this _really_ what you came here for? To justify your shit behavior? I don’t have time for this.” She makes to get up, but freezes as Henrik’s fingers gently latch onto her wrist.

And it’s impossible, isn’t it, to forget how that same touch used to make her feel. How it always felt like coming home, like finding a peace she never knew could exist. Impossible to forget how the man across from her used to be the only person in her universe, the man who hung the stars in the sky.

Now, his hands feel cold and clammy. There’s no comfort to be found in his touch. And, yes, he seems like a stranger, but even worse—he’s a fraud.

“You don’t give a fuck about me,” she hisses, tearing herself away from him. “You didn’t care when you slept with someone else, you didn’t care when you ran back to Sweden, you didn’t care when you lied about me in that interview. You don’t care about anything other than yourself.”

The anger is familiar. It wraps her in its embrace, steels her resolve, makes her feel like a kid again, growing up in a town too small and suffocating for someone like her—too different, too talented, too eager to make something of herself. She was so angry back then, worked so hard to be better as an adult, but it still creeps up every now and then to rip open those scars.

“What did you expect me to do?” Henrik asks, his voice as small as she’s ever heard it. Yet the edge is still there, still persists. “You… you weren’t _there_. You were never there.”

Another flashbang of anger. “Don’t you dare blame this on me.”

Fingers weave into his long hair, tugging in frustration. “I’m not. That’s not—that isn’t what I meant. I just…” He deflates, shoulders slumping in a way that’s completely unbecoming of him. “It was never going to work, was it? You and me?”

A lump forms in her throat against her will. This man _hurt_ her. Tore her heart out and spat in the wound. Taunted her heartbreak. Turned it around and blamed her for it. But he’s so unlike himself in this moment that she can’t help that her first instinct is to comfort him. Her heart longs to be near him, to lie and say everything is going to be okay, and it takes all the willpower she possesses to stay where she is.

“You asked me to marry you,” she answers, confused. “I said yes. Why wouldn’t it have worked?”

“Nicola,” he sighs, burying his face in his hands. “It’s so easy to be you, you know? You have a whole team of people telling you what to do, what to say, how to be perfect.” Nicola moves to protest but Henrik holds up a finger. “Please, just let me say this.”

His breath is sharp on the inhale and fractured and shaky as he releases it. “Do you know how difficult it is to live up to you? To be the one in the relationship who’s always making mistakes?”

“Henrik—”

The longer he talks, the sharper his words become. “It’s impossible. You have no idea what you’re asking someone to do—to _become_ —by being with you. And it wouldn’t have worked because I couldn’t…” He pauses, trying to find the words. “I couldn’t _grow_ with you. You steal the light from anyone who stands next to you and they’re left in the dark. I was in your darkness for _four years_ , Nicola. Four years, and you never noticed. Not once.”

She feels as though she’s been slapped. It isn’t the first time she’s been told she’s too much, but it’s the first time it cuts so deep. Really, she isn’t sure if it’s the words themselves or the implications, that she stunts the growth of everyone in her orbit—the only people she dares to let in, the people she trusts. The thought of hurting them is almost too much to bear, and maybe Henrik’s right. Maybe it is too much to ask to have a friend, a confidante.

Because… he’s right. She can’t have an equal.

Whether Henrik’s unaware of her now-tenuous grasp on reality or is choosing to ignore it, she’s not sure. “So, yes, I did ‘out’ Bobby,” he continues, “but as much as you’d like to pretend otherwise, you don’t know what it’s like to not feel good enough for your partner _and_ have to sit by and watch everyone else love her as much as you do.”

Nicola’s face distorts in confusion. “You did all this because you were jealous?”

“What? No,” he answers quickly. “I didn’t—”

Anger surges through her again. “I said yes,” she nearly screams. “I was ready to fucking _marry_ you, Henrik, and you were worried about _Bobby_?”

“Of course I was fucking worried about Bobby!” Henrik yells back, her anger contagious. “I was worried about Bobby and a million other people, because I knew I couldn’t be what you wanted! I was never going to be enough for you!”

“This again?” Nicola snarls. “You think your insecurity justifies what you did? You thought I spent all my time in New York sleeping with Bobby, so you decided to fuck someone else, too? Is that it?” There’s no response, but she doesn’t miss the way his jaw clenches. “Well, guess what, Henrik? I didn’t fuck Bobby. I didn’t fuck Kassam. I didn’t fuck anyone except _you,_ so you threw away our relationship because of your own stupidity.”

He meets her eye and sighs. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“I don’t know. Turns out most of what I thought I knew about you is wrong.”

Hurt flashes across his face. “It’s not. I’m still the same person you fell in love with, I just… I guess I lost myself somewhere along the line.”

“What do you want from me?” she asks suddenly, her tone sharp.

“Nothing—”

“You want forgiveness?” she interjects. “You want me to listen to all this bullshit and tell you it’s okay? Give you a hug and wipe your tears? You want me to go outside and tell everyone I’ve forgiven you, maybe clear up that image of yours a bit?”

“Nicola—”

“Well, I don’t, Henrik,” she snaps. “I don’t forgive you. I don’t give a fuck about your closure; I don’t need it. I would’ve been perfectly fine never seeing or speaking to you again.”

As he starts to move around the table between them, Nicola holds up a finger. “Do _not_ come near me.”

“Okay,” he acquiesces. “But I don’t—I didn’t come here to _use_ you.”

“No, you just came in guns blazing. You wanted to drag everyone else down with you and sit there with your holier-than-thou bullshit and act like _I’m_ the problem.” She sucks in a breath. “All my life I’ve been told I’m too much, not enough, too this, too that—and you know what, Henrik? I thought I finally found someone who thought I was _enough_ . Who loved me for me. Someone I didn’t have to shrink myself down for. But that wasn’t you, was it? I wasn’t enough for you, either. Worse, I was _too much_.”

Fingernails dig into the palm of her hand and she revels in the sting. “If I was too much, if you were truly in the dark, that’s on _you._ I can’t accept responsibility for that.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Henrik argues. “Nicola, I _did_ love you. I do. I just… fuck, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what to say other than I fucked up.”

They sit in the tense air between them for a long time. No words are exchanged, no eye contact made. Nicola does what she can to hide her jittery hands, shaking from anger and adrenaline. It’s stupid, but she doesn’t want him to know how affected she is. Doesn’t want to give him the power, even though he already has it. She’s done a good job of speaking her mind, she thinks, but eventually this conversation will be over. She’ll be alone and she’ll think of all the things she should’ve said but didn’t, and she’ll be forced to stew in it—the ending.

Because she knows, deep down, that this is the last time she’ll ever see him. She’d talked of closure and she’d meant what she said. She didn’t need it, and she knows this to be true when the thought of never seeing him again doesn’t fill her with the same fear it used to. It’s comforting. There’s peace in that reality, the one that unshackles her from Henrik and her failed engagement and the worst heartbreak and humiliation of her life.

“Did you actually want to marry me?” she finally asks.

It takes Henrik a long time to answer. “I did,” he answers, “but not for the right reasons. I’m not proud of it, but I thought it’d fix things—how I was feeling. I figured if you agreed to marry me then I must’ve been good enough, that you actually did love me.”

A quiet, rueful laugh. “It was a band-aid.”

“Yeah,” Henrik agrees. “I guess it was.”

“Huh.”

“I would’ve been so happy to spend the rest of my life with you, but I didn’t deserve it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Henrik chuckles. “That’s why it wouldn’t have worked. Even if you were dumb enough to marry me, I’d always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was never going to be comfortable.”

“Yeah,” Nicola agrees, unsure of what else to say. “I understand.”

He stands, knees popping as he does so, looking unsure and out of place. “I, uh—I wish you the best.”

She snorts, but there’s more warmth in her smile than she’s happy with. “Wish I could say the same. I kind of wish you’d go to hell.”

Fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach out and hug her; corners of his mouth twitch to return her smile. “See you around, Nic.”

“Sure.”

She watches him go—watches as he disappears through the door and down a hallway, watches as Kassam eyes him distrustfully as he passes, watches as he nears the exit. Once it closes behind him, she lets the tears fall.

Sobs wrack her body. Whatever’s left of her strength crumbles around her and she sinks to the floor, presses her back against the wall and screams into her knees. There’s a hand rubbing circles on her back that she knows belongs to Kassam—knows the comfort of his presence more than ever after the last few months—and she leans into it, desperate for companionship.

“It’s okay,” he speaks into her hair. “You’re okay.”

She tries to respond, tries to put on a brave face and say _I know. Maybe not right now, but I will be._ But the words don’t come. She can’t force them out of her mouth.

So, she just cries. Lets all the anguish and shame and anger wash over her until she’s cried out and her throat is raw and hoarse. Lets herself try to find comfort in knowing Henrik was right, that it never would’ve worked, that maybe any relationship of hers is doomed from the start and he was no exception. Lets Kassam gather her in his embrace and tries not to wonder if she’s slowly ruining him, too—if she’s ruining Hope and Chelsea and Bobby.

But a stray thought enters her mind and hits her like a goddamn train.

“What?” Kassam asks, worry immediately etching his face. “What’s wrong?”

A laugh escapes her before she can help it. One, then another and one more, and it’s not long until she’s laughing through her tears. “That fucking bastard.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“All that bullshit, and he never even fucking apologized.”

Kassam looks gobsmacked. “Are you serious?” he asks, his blue eyes twinkling in some mixture of amusement and disgust. “ _Salaud_.”

* * *

 **BACK TOGETHER? Nicola Jordan spotted with ex-fiancé Henrik Bergstrom after split three months ago** **  
**_By Hannah Adams, Daily Mail Staff_ | 3 April 2020

Bobby spends two days staring at the missed call from Nicola, his traitorous thumb nearly pressing down far enough to return it more times than he’d care to admit.

On day three, his stomach twists as he receives a single text message:

 **Nicola**   
Please let me know when you’re ready to talk

He’s not ready.

And he knows he needs to steel himself for the conversation anyway, because her words play on a loop in his brain. Henrik had taken days to speak to her after the New Year’s Eve party, and he doesn’t want to repeat someone else’s mistake, especially when the stakes are so high, when there’s such a massive risk of reopening that wound, of being yet another person who can’t face up to her and give her what she deserves, but _fuck_ , he can’t do it. Can’t muster the courage. Can’t stop his hands shaking long enough to return the text.

Whether it’s cowardice or self-preservation, he just can’t do it.

Three days turns into a week which turns into two. Each day he wakes up with panic seizing his heart, digging itself into the muscle there, finds a home to settle into. Each day he wakes up insistent on replying to her, a simple _I’m sorry, I’m ready_ , but he falls back into bed at the edge of midnight without sending it. The longer it goes on, the easier it becomes.

Really, he’s used to the pining; used to whatever feelings he has being unrequited. Almost prefers it this way, if he’s being honest. With distance between them, he’s able to preserve the friendship—he’s able to keep it simple and easy. He doesn’t have to constantly worry about breaking her heart, doesn’t have to worry about crumbling under the pressure. She’s just Nicola, his friend, the person he helps write songs sometimes. That’s been the extent of their relationship for so long that as much as he wants her, as much as he feels for her, he’s terrified to change it. There’s safety in friendship, even if he desperately wants more.

He’s sat on his couch feeling sorry for himself when the text comes through. An attachment sent to the group chat with Nicola and Kassam, the one she’d added him to months ago. Another stanza of lyrics to an unfinished song, Bobby assumes. He also assumes she’d mistakenly sent it to the group chat instead of only Kaz. Still, it _has_ been sent to him, accidentally or not, and he can’t help but look.

 _My only one_ _  
_ _My smoking gun_ _  
_ _My eclipsed sun_

The thought of her and Henrik being back together… well, it fucking sucks. Makes his chest hurt, makes his breaths just a little more difficult to take. He hasn’t bothered to ask Chels or Lottie the truth. Knows he wouldn’t be able to bear it if he—and all those stupid tabloids—are right. It’s out of his hands, though. He needs to trust that Nicola knows what she’s doing; that, if they’re truly back together, she’s making the best decision for herself.

 _Don’t want no other shade of blue but you_ _  
_ _No other sadness in the world would do_

God, fuck everything he just thought. They couldn’t be… could they? Surely Nicola knows better after everything Henrik had put her through. But Bobby had been there, had seen all the songs she’d written for him. He’s always known how real her feelings were for him—hell, they were going to get _married_. Spend the rest of their lives together. And if that’s not a good enough reason to forgive and move on, he’s not sure what is.

 _You know I left a part of me back in New York_ _  
_ _You knew the hero died, so what’s the movie for?_ _  
_ _You knew it still hurts underneath my scars_ _  
_ _From when they pulled me apart_

Bobby is a fucking idiot. He understands this now, lets this knowledge seep into the marrow of his bones and ground him. _Nothing smart about me_ , he thinks. _Just a bunch of dumbassery shrunk down and jammed into a person_. It’s hard to believe he’d ever deluded himself into believing he had a chance, however small. Whoever she chooses, it’s never going to be him.

But he knows—promises himself—that the next time she calls, he’s going to answer.

And then it’s nearing three-o’clock in the morning when his phone starts vibrating, a grating noise as it rumbles against his night stand, the sound jolting him out of a fitful sleep. Seeing Nicola’s name across the screen nearly sets his nerves on fire.

“Hello?” he croaks out, praying the call was an accident.

It isn’t. “Bobby?” Nicola says, her voice slightly slurred. “Oh wow, you answered.”

“You don’t usually call me this late,” he says, his eyes squeezing shut of their own accord. “Needed to make sure you weren’t dead or hurt or something.”

“Hurt?” she repeats, and he can imagine the annoyed expression on her face. “You’ve been _ignoring_ me, of course I’m—”

“Are you hurt right now? Like, physically injured and-or dying?”

There’s a scoff, a small clash of sound. “I wouldn’t say this has been the best two weeks of my life.”

The words hit him harder than he expects, and it’s purely out of spite and shame that he says, “Why? Aren’t you back with Henrik? We just work toge—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she pleads. “After all the _shit_ I’ve trudged through these past three months, I deserve better than to sit here and be lied to.”

He sighs, rights himself in his empty bed and presses his back flush against the headboard. Fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he sighs. “Nicola, please, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I just want you to _talk_ to me.”

“I’m not ready.”

“And I was? You think I was ready to hear Hen—hear _him_ say that and you—you just _stood there_ , Bobby. You _left_.”

Bobby can’t help but groan. “Can we discuss this in the morning?” he asks, because he can feel the embers of anger beginning to burn in the pit of his stomach.

Yes, he knows their conversation is long overdue. He knows he owes it to her, if nothing else, but he really fucking resents being put in this position to begin with. That someone took his choice away, put this on her when she’s nowhere near ready or equipped to deal with it, that whatever this is has been reduced to a semi-drunk phone call at half-three in the morning on a Thursday. That Henrik did this to him while he gets to grace the covers of shit-tier magazines, questions about his reconciled relationship emblazoned above his head in massive print.

“Come over.”

He sighs. “You know I can’t.”

“Why?” she argues. “Because you don’t—”

“This is really how you want to do this?” Bobby snaps. “A drunk phone call in the middle of the night?”

“Of course not! _I_ wanted to do this a fortnight ago!”

“Why are you pushing this?” he asks, exhaustion slipping in. “What does it matter?”

“I deserve to know, Bobby.”

Slender fingers push at his eyes and he thinks he might enjoy the twinge of pain, the spots in his vision. “Aye, well, you deserve to remember the conversation, too, so—”

Her next question comes out as a strangled, frustrated yell. “It’s a bloody conversation! What are you so afraid of?”

 _Everything,_ he thinks. _Losing you. Walking away from this and it meaning nothing. Giving up before I try. The inevitable rejection. Hurting you the way he did._

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

It’s not a confession. Not a confirmation, either. Well, not really, but there’s a sharp intake of breath that tells him that Nicola’s treating it as such. Selfishly, he hopes this is enough to sate her, to push back their conversation long enough for him to gain his bearings again.

But when she says, “No, Bobby, I really don’t,” he knows he’s not that lucky.

The quiet seems to stretch between them for hours. Any hopes Bobby had of being able to fall back asleep are now long gone and he sighs, still cradling the phone against his ear as he begrudgingly gets out of bed. If he’s going to be awake at half-three, he’s at least going to make coffee.

“You _really_ want to talk about this now?” Bobby confirms. There’s a quiet hum of acknowledgement on the other end that he barely registers, too busy rifling through his pantry for the unopened bag of gourmet beans Chelsea had bought him whilst on tour in South America.

“Nic?” he prompts, but all he’s met with is more silence. “Still awake, lass?”

When he still doesn’t get a response, he puts the call on speakerphone and sets it on the counter. Flits about his kitchen as he makes his coffee, figuring he’ll throw one last Hail Mary just in case he doesn’t get a second shot.

Spontaneity isn’t really in Bobby’s nature—not like this, at least. Typically, he’s abundantly cautious; doesn’t like making a move before he’s relatively certain of the outcome. Being turned down romantically about a hundred times will do that, he supposes. That part of his nature had only deepened the longer he spent time with Nicola. There was no way he was about to bare his soul to a woman in a relationship, let alone one engaged to be married. _Cautious_ became his default setting. Now, he can’t think of a more opportune time to throw it to the wind.

“So, you want the truth, eh?” he says, cursing under his breath as some of the coffee grounds spill onto the counter. “That bastard ex of yours wasn’t lying. Not entirely, anyway, because I think _love_ might be a bit much. No offence, but I don’t think I’m in love with you, y’know? Like, that’s pretty intense. Really serious stuff.”

He pauses to take a breath, eager to stem the word vomit currently spewing from his mouth. “And I didn’t—those songs we wrote together… they weren’t how he said. I wrote them _for_ you, because that’s my job. I don’t want you to think I was just… waiting. That’s not me. I have way too much respect for you to do something fucked up like that.”

The machine beeps and Bobby fetches a mug off a shelf he’s almost too short for. Another gift—this one from his mum. _I’d rather be in Scotland_ it says, a cartoonish version of Nessie staring back at him as he fills it just enough to leave room for cream _._ “I don’t even know why I’m saying all this. It’s not really appropriate, is it? Like, this is definitely a conversation we should be having face-to-face and yet here I am, pouring my heart out as I froth milk for my coffee at nearly four-o’clock in the morning.

“Do you remember what you asked me on Valentine’s Day? You asked what other secrets I was hiding from you.” He chuckles at the memory. “Bet you never thought it’d be this, huh? Knowing me, I’m sure you thought it was, like, a hidden love-child or being really good at woodworking, but _nooo_ , I had to go and make it something awful. Which is still on-brand for me, I suppose.”

Milk frothed, he adds a teaspoon of sugar to the mug and swirls a spoon around. “But, while I’m on the topic of answering all your questions, I guess I should also tell you what I was so afraid of. And… it’s this, basically—telling you this and losing your friendship, because that’s the most important thing to me. Now that I have it, I’m not all that keen to let it go. I always think back to that day in New York—the first time I met Chelsea and you fired Felix. I think that was the first time I knew I was really in trouble, you know? Because aye, you’re obviously talented and beautiful, but _everyone_ knows that. Not everyone gets to see the side of you that sticks up for someone you barely know.”

As he finishes fixing his coffee, he makes his way back to his bedroom, socked feet nearly slipping on the hardwood. “I’m gonna drink this, so I’m hanging up. Sweet dreams, Nic,” he says, almost surprised at the warmth in his voice, the conviction.

He expects to be enveloped in regret once he disconnects the call. He expects the doom and gloom, the _holy shit what have I done_ , the feeling of his life being over—but nothing comes. There’s just the calm silence of his bedroom, the heat of the mug seeping into his palms, the silver light creeping in through his windows. He feels… light. Not free, because he wouldn’t be Bobby if he wasn’t panicking over _something_ , but it’d be a lie to say it doesn’t feel nice to give voice to his feelings.

It’s what he’s been missing over the last few months of chaos. There’d been no peace, no calm, and certainly no time to sit and reflect. His brain and his body had been on overdrive—always one more studio session to attend, one more song to sit and write, no leaving the studio until it was finished. That was the hectic pace he’d grown accustomed to. Thrived in. But it’d grown and evolved, morphed into an ugly beast of overwork and exhaustion, so to sit in the calmness of the twilight is… grounding. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

Until he returns from putting his mug in the sink and sees his phone screen light up with an unread text message.

 **Nicola**   
Come by the studio in the morning?

Well, fuck. So much for peace of mind.

* * *

 _This feels familiar,_ Bobby thinks.

Feels like that day back in early January, the first studio session after The Event. Nicola’s sat on the couch again, another pair of designer sunglasses covering the dark circles under her eyes, her guitar laying haphazardly across her lap. 

A quick look around tells him they’re the only ones there. Interesting.

“Okay?” he asks, trying desperately to keep the anxiety he’s feeling from creeping into his words. Fat lot of good it does. He can barely hide his sweaty hands, let alone the uncertainty in his voice.

Nicola looks up at him, her expression flat and unreadable. Bobby suddenly feels as if he’s entered a lion’s den rather than in the presence of a friend. “Sure,” she answers. “Just tired. Didn’t get much sleep.”

Bobby cocks an eyebrow, unable to tell where this is going. He’d had his suspicions that she’d been awake for the whole of his confession, but he’s not going to out himself before he’s certain her standoffish demeanour isn’t embarrassment. “Okay,” he says slowly.

There’s silence between them again. It’s awkward and uncomfortable now where it used to be calming, and Bobby can’t stand it. Really, _really_ can’t fucking stand it. Makes him feel itchy, like he’s somewhere he’s not meant to be, and that’s probably not far from the truth.

“Did you mean it?”

His stomach plummets to the ground. She was awake. Heard all of the stupid shit he thought it’d be a good idea to say, and now she wants to talk about it. Have that conversation Bobby’s been running from for weeks. “Mean what?” he asks, knowing damn well how stupid it is to play dumb.

Nicola knows, too, because she pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and pins him with a look. Bobby clears his throat. “That’s, uh—a very terrifying look.” The corners of her mouth twitch. “Is this a test?”

“Only if you lie.”

“That’s fair,” he chuckles, purely out of self-preservation. The breath he sucks in is deep and purposeful, buying him time while also steadying his nerves. “I did mean it. And I know you’re probably a bit upset I said it like that, but—”

“I’m not,” she interjects, sucking on her teeth. “I just… I didn’t…” She frowns, refusing to meet Bobby’s eye as she picks at the underside of her nails. She mimics the breath he’d taken earlier, sharp and steady, and once she finally matches his gaze, he sees all the strife and weight of the last few weeks. “ _Fuck_ , Bobby. I didn’t expect this, you know?”

It’s not often that he’s speechless. There’s usually one stupid joke on the tip of his tongue, ready to discharge as soon as that awkward silence settles in, but now his brain is empty save for Nicola and the mix of emotions painted across her face.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can think to say. “I know.”

Guilt is going to swallow him whole. _This_ is why he didn’t want to do this. _This_ is why he was planning on taking his feelings to the grave; why, if he ever has the misfortune of seeing Henrik again, he’s not going to hesitate to knock him straight on his arse.

Because, for as daft and oblivious as Bobby can be, he’s not an idiot. He can see the strain of this situation bearing down on her, the confirmation of his feelings nothing but an albatross around her neck, and he hates being ensnared in that web, hates being responsible for even the tiniest fraction of it. He’d spent the last three months watching her navigate her pain, try to heal, and now…

Has he sent her back to the start? Has he dropped a mountain of additional bullshit at her feet and asked her to trudge through it?

 _Yes_ , Bobby thinks, _I have._

When Nicola finally breaks the silence, her words aren’t what Bobby expects. “Did you know about Lottie and Kassam?”

“Eh?” Bobby asks, a stupid look on his face. “I know she has feelings for him, but—”

“And he turned her down,” Nicola finishes, to which Bobby nods. “She told me about it the other day. Imagine my shock when she said this happened in January—that _I_ was just finding out but everyone else had known for months.”

Guilt creeps in again. Deeper this time, like he can feel it intertwined with the marrow in his bones. “I don’t think she did it on purpose,” he tries to explain. But that’s a lie, isn’t it? “I mean, it was _January_ , and—”

“And you lot decided I had enough on my plate.” She rolls her eyes, and Bobby finds he doesn’t much enjoy being on the receiving end of it. “I know. Lottie had the same piss-poor excuse.”

“Nic—”

She uncrosses her legs and moves forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. “Don’t you think I’ve got enough people in my life making decisions for me? That I know myself well enough to know what I can and can’t handle? That maybe I would’ve liked to have been there for my best mate?”

“I didn’t think it was my place to tell you about Lottie,” Bobby replies, voice sharp with a slight edge.

Nicola rolls her lips. “Mm, well, you _were_ busy keeping secrets of your own, so I guess that makes sense.”

As guilty as he may feel, he can feel his patience wearing thin. “What did you want me to do, Nic? Tell you I had feelings for you after your bastard of a fiancé cheated on you? I didn’t want to tell you at all, but that choice was taken away from me, so if you’ve got something to say, then just fuckin’ say it, eh?”

“I wanted you to be honest,” she fires back. “How many times do I have to tell you that? I wanted to not be the last to know _everything_ , instead of finding out like a bloody idiot. I wanted to trust my mates!”

“You can.” His voice is soft, pliable, and it seems to knock her off balance. “I don’t want to argue with you, Nicola. I won’t. If you want to have a go at me or Lottie or Kassam or any of us, be my guest. But I can’t sit here and let you think you aren’t worth our trust.”

She averts her eyes, twisting the rings she’s wearing on her thumb and middle fingers. A question burns on the tip of Bobby’s tongue, the words inching closer to escaping his mouth the longer he sits on it. But he _needs_ to know. “Christ, lass, is this about Henrik? What’d that prick say to you that’s got you so bent out of shape?”

Full lips open and snap shut several times, her mind clearly at war with her heart. And Bobby hates this—hates that anyone has made her cautious, scared, reluctant when she was never those things before. The Nicola that fired Felix on the spot isn’t the same Nicola that’s sat across from him now.

“Nothing,” she finally answers. “He didn’t say anything.”

Bobby can barely swallow his sigh. “ _Nicola_. Didn’t you just yell at me for lying?”

“I didn’t _yell_ at you.”

He snorts. “Alright. Didn’t you just _talk loudly at me with a mean tone of voice_ for lying?”

“That could be true,” she mumbles.

Bobby cups a hand over his ear, his signature shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “What was that? Can’t hear you.”

“Fuck off,” she glares at him, but she’s desperately trying to hide her own smile. “He just… nothing he said was particularly _kind,_ so I’m not very keen on repeating it.”

“I won’t pry,” Bobby promises, “just as long as you know you _can_ , yeah? And that whatever he said was fuckin’ bollocks.”

“You don’t even know what he said.”

Bobby tuts. “Do I have to? I know that roaster loves talking out his arse, and that’s enough.”

Silence settles between them again, less tense than the last time. As he always does, Bobby wonders what it’s like in her world—what it’s like to exist on a stage, both literally and figuratively; what it’s like to have a life that’s barely your own. To have every decision, every mistake analysed under a microscope. To have every ounce of pain and happiness categorized into Deserved or Not Deserved.

To have a small group of friends—real, genuine friends that don’t have ulterior motives—and be kept in the dark about their lives. And _fuck_ if that thought doesn’t have him whimpering in shame.

Because it’s one thing to forget, but this wasn’t omitting what Lottie had for lunch that day. And, as much as Bobby wants to excuse it by saying they were only trying to look out for her… there’s no honour in it. He vaguely recalls a quote about roads to hell and good intentions.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” he says, breaking the quiet. “We thought we were doing the right thing, but clearly we weren’t.”

Nicola nods. “It was just a lot all at once, you know? It was probably silly to get upset over, but between Lottie and Kassam and…” She pauses, looking up at Bobby with eyes full of hesitation. _You_ is the unspoken word tacked onto the end of that sentence, and it isn’t until now that he realizes they’ve barely discussed it.

“Aye, right,” he replies, scratching the back of his neck. “ _That._ ”

“I’m not… I’m not going to push you,” she breathes. “You weren’t going to do it to me, so it’d be unfair if I did it to you. I just—it’s kind of a massive thing, no? I’m just a bit lost.”

“I don’t want it to be,” Bobby quickly says.

She cocks an eyebrow. “How do you reckon that’s going to work?”

Bobby blushes. “I just—I _know_ it’s a big deal, all right? But your friendship means more to me than…” Than what? It’s not some silly crush, he knows. It’s deeper than that, but he’s not so far gone he’ll never recover from her inevitable rejection, either. “Than whatever feelings I have,” he finishes.

“Is that the truth?” she asks, smirking at him. “Or is that your job security talking?”

A snort escapes him. “Oi! I vaguely recall _someone_ going through my ASCAP page and being _shocked_ at how in-demand I am.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I already knew you were talented. I was _shocked_ because you never told me about half of them.”

“Nicola, please,” Bobby jokes, faux-exasperation bleeding into his voice as he places a hand over his heart. “My ego is already big enough. I can’t have you saying such nice things about me.”

“Good news for you, then, since that’s the only nice thing I’ve got to say.”

“Wow. Like an arrow straight to the heart.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately, leaning to her left to pick up her guitar. A plectrum gets stuck between her teeth as she adjusts the tuning, both on the neck and the knobs of her amp. Strums a few times, her practiced ear listening for intricacies Bobby can barely register. It’s intimidating sometimes, how much talent she possesses.

“I wrote a song about it,” she says. “About what… what he said.” A deep breath. “That got me so fucked up. Well, one of many, but this one’s nearly finished.”

Bobby swallows. “Can I hear it?”

Nicola shrugs, adjusting the tuning one final time, places her capo on the first fret.

 _Baby really hurt me, crying in the taxi_ _  
_ _He don’t wanna know me_ _  
_ _Says he made the big mistake of dancing in my storm_ _  
_ _Says it was poison_

Pain grips Bobby’s chest, makes his lungs hurt; digs into the flesh and makes a home there. Henrik had told her she was too much. Not worth the risk, the effort. Made her believe it, if even for a second. _Too long_ , he thinks.

 _They say, “You’re a little much for me_ _  
_ _You’re a liability_ _  
_ _You’re a little much for me”_ _  
_ _So, they pull back, make other plans_ _  
_ _I understand, I’m a liability_ _  
_ _Get you wild, make you leave_ _  
_ _I’m a little much for everyone_

Not for the first time, he wants two things simultaneously: he wants to hurt Henrik, inflict as much pain upon him as he inflicted upon Nicola, and he wants to hold her. Wants to gather her in his arms and hold her until Henrik and all his words are forgotten, nothing but a bad taste stuck in the back of her throat.

Once she’s finished, Bobby forgoes his applause and gives her a knowing look. “Like I said—a roaster.”

She snorts her laughter before grabbing a handful of plectrums and throwing them at him. “No feedback? Just an _‘_ I told you so’?”

“Nah.” He grins. “Your ego’s big enough, too. _One_ of us has to fit through the door, and as the talented one in this operation, it’s not gonna be me.”

“Yep,” she hums, “you’re definitely fired.”

Bobby’s on his feet before he can think twice, rounding the back of the couch Nicola’s sat on. Ruffles her hair and wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind. “Nope,” he laughs. “You’re stuck with me, lass.”

And if it’s too intimate a gesture for her, she doesn’t mention it.

And if Bobby’s skin ignites at the way she settles into his embrace, allowing him to hold her tighter, he doesn’t mention that, either.

And if he notices the small, barely-there smile she tries to conceal when he presses a quick, lingering kiss to her cheek and tells her she’s not too much, everyone else just isn’t enough for her? Well, that just means no one can blame him for committing it to memory.

And if he allows himself the smallest sliver of hope? If he holds it close to his chest, lashing out at anyone and anything that dares threaten it? Well, who could blame him?

He feels the slight tremble of her shoulders as she exhales, unsteady and uncertain. He breathes in her perfume—the one she always wears; the one that dizzies all his senses because he associates it only with her. And, not for the first (or last) time, he wonders how anyone could have her in their arms and choose to let go. How their body wouldn’t protest at the first sign of release. Then, he wonders if everyone is drawn to her so desperately, as if connected by some invisible force, but, well…

He already knows the answer to that.

“You’re good at that,” she says quietly, words rumbling in her chest.

Bobby’s mouth is still too close to her ear when he speaks. “You’re gonna have to elaborate, Nic. I’m good at lots of things.” The joke feels all wrong as he says it, but he’s trying so hard to keep things lighthearted, casual, because they’re closer now than they’ve ever been— _Bobby’s_ closer than he’s ever been—and it’s all so intimate.

She chuckles. “Making people feel safe.”

“Oh,” he replies, voice thick. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

Nicola shrugs. “They should’ve.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure I’m what people think of when they hear that word. More like that massive new bodyguard you’ve got.” 

She angles her body to face him, each of them close enough to take in the smattering of freckles on the other’s face. Tucks a slender leg beneath her as she playfully taps the side of her cheek. “Jakub’s all muscle so he could be slow on his feet. You’re smaller but you seem scrappy.”

“Scrappy?” Bobby repeats.

“You’re from Scotland, you were in a punk band, and you were ready to have a go at Henrik despite him being, like, six-foot-four. There’s no way you _aren’t_ scrappy.”

“He’s not _that_ much taller than me. A whole four inches at best.”

Nicola snorts and whacks him on the bicep. “Please don’t tell me you’ve listed your height as six-foot on your dating apps.”

“Why wouldn’t I? That’s how tall I am.”

“ _Bobby._ You’re, like, five-foot-ten at best.”

“Oi! Who are you to crush my dreams of being tall? Were you appointed the height dictator when no one was looking and that’s what you do now, just go around and remind everyone of how average they are?”

“Yep, you’ve caught me,” she laughs. “You’ve discovered my backup plan for when I reach irrelevance in a few years.”

“I really doubt that’s going to happen.” Bobby pauses, gathering up whatever courage he has left and shoving it to the forefront. “ _However_ , I will have you know I don’t use dating apps, but since you’ve brought up dating, I’m taking you on a date this weekend.”

Nicola’s eyes widen, prompting Bobby to stick up a finger as she moves to protest. “Doesn’t have to be a _date-_ date. It can be a… friends date. I’m quite happy with either, so I’ll let you decide.”

She studies his face for a long time, searching for that tiny bit of insincerity to justify her overwhelming urge to say _no, maybe some other time, I’m sorry but I’m not ready._ But there’s nothing there besides the sparkle in his hazel eyes and a smile she knows is bound to get her in trouble one day.

 _More like right now,_ she thinks to herself.

Because, more than knowing God created Bobby McKenzie’s smile on the seventh day, Nicola knows that if she gives Henrik any more power over her life, her _happiness_ , if she waits until all the doubt leaves her and she’s finally, truly ready… she’ll be waiting the rest of her fucking life.

“Fine, then,” she agrees, offering up a smile brilliant enough to rival Bobby’s, “let’s do it.”

***

Lottie comes round to Bobby’s on Thursday evening, half of her silvery-blonde hair dyed an ominous shade of black and her worst attitude on display.

And he wonders if she can tell there’s something different about him because he certainly _feels_ different. Feels like he’s walking on pillowy clouds, not a worry in the world as he counts down the days until the weekend. Thinks about Nicola’s smile as she agreed to their maybe-date. Thinks about the obnoxious bouquet of flowers—tulips, which he remembered and didn’t need Chelsea to remind him of—he ordered to be delivered to her new place Saturday morning. Thinks about the sour look that will undoubtedly grace Henrik’s face when rumours start to spread and how badly he wishes he could toss two middle fingers in the air.

So, really, it’s no surprise that he adopts his own sour look as soon as she starts whinging about Kassam.

It’s a topic he’s become intimately familiar with over the last few months. When he wasn’t busy wallowing in his own self-pity, he’d had time to pop onto Twitter to read all of Lottie’s tweets about the pain of unrequited love and rejection. No wonder Nicola found out—Lottie has never been one for subtext. However cryptic and mysterious she thought she was being was nowhere near cryptic and mysterious enough.

(Kassam, meanwhile, ignored all of them and opted to spend his time tweeting about Overwatch and a cool new pair of headphones he’d purchased.)

“Are you even listening to me?” Lottie glares.

Bobby tries really hard not to roll his eyes, but he can’t help it. “Honestly, Lozza? Not really.”

Saying so makes him feel like a bit of a dick. She _had_ listened to him blather on about Nicola, but that was all the way back in January. Three months. A long time to be hung up on an admission of feelings gone wrong. Besides, it’s not like any of them have had much time to think about it. The rest of the team had been forced to shoulder most of the rewriting effort after Bobby had come down with a bad case of Being a Coward, not leaving Kassam with much time to think about anything other than the album.

“I know you’re still upset,” Bobby begins, guilt spurring him into action, “but don’t you think—”

Lottie scoffs. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” he argues.

“I don’t need to. You’re gonna tell me I’m overreacting and to get over it, just like everyone else has.”

Bobby cocks an eyebrow. “You think we’re all lying, then?”

“No. I think you’ve all got exactly what you want, so who cares about Lottie’s stupid crush.”

“And, just to clarify: you _don’t_ think you’re being overdramatic?”

Unsurprisingly, Lottie looks murderous. “I just wanted someone to listen, not try and solve my problems or tell me to get over it, but apparently you lot are only capable of doing that for everyone but me.”

Something about Lottie’s words have anger pooling in his veins. “Oh, fuck off, Lottie,” he snaps. “You’re doing my nut in. Not everything’s about you.”

“Nah, everything’s about Nicola and that bastard—”

“All right, now it’s _your_ turn to not finish that sentence.”

“Of course.” She rolls her eyes. “Her very own white knight.”

“You know what, Lottie? It’s no one’s fault Kassam turned you down, but instead of lashing out, maybe you should do some fucking introspection, because you’re dead ugly right now. And if you truly feel left behind, maybe you should’ve said something before letting it fester and almost saying some vile shit about your best friend.” He sucks in a breath, an unsuccessful balm to the storm raging inside of him. “And I’m sorry, but a fucking crush not liking you back is not the same as being cheated on by your goddamn fiancé.”

“Fuck you, Bobby,” she spits. “At least I had the fucking balls to do something about it.”

Bobby laughs. “Oh, you’ve not heard? We’ve got a date on Saturday, so I guess you’ll have to come up with some new material in between your whinging sessions.”

Lottie’s jaw snaps shut. “I’m sorry, you’ve got a _what_?”

“A date.”

“You and Nicola?”

“Aye.”

“You and Nicola are going on a _date_?”

“Aye, on Saturday. Honestly, Loz, what do you have going on between those ears? Surely not a brain.”

“Fuck off,” she says automatically, her voice flat. “You and _Nicola_ are going on a _date_ this weekend?”

“For the fuckin’ third time, yes.”

“Holy shit,” she breathes, tone mirroring her stunned expression. “How in the fuck did you manage that?”

“I just told her we were going on one. It was dead simple.”

“And she just… agreed?”

“Aye.”

“Holy fucking _Christ_ , Bobby! Why didn’t you tell me?”

He guffaws. “Are you serious? You strolled in here all off your head and now you’re asking why I didn’t tell you?”

“Okay, but this is obviously way more important.”

“Aye, I’ve been trying to tell you that.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever. Enough about that.” A barely-concealed squeal trickles out. “You and Nic are going on a fucking _date._ Fuck me. I never thought I’d see the day.”

As she moves around Bobby’s flat, she sheds her anger and grows giddier with each step. “I can’t believe you’ve just dumped this on me out of nowhere. Go make us a cuppa—we need to chat strategy.”

Bobby groans. “I don’t have a strategy.”

“Are you fucking daft? You need one.”

He scoffs, hand on his hip as he fills his kettle at the sink. “Are you saying being myself won’t be enough?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

After an hour of enduring Lottie’s comments and suggestions, Bobby decides to disregard all of them while promising her otherwise. A list of thirty-seven must-try restaurants to choose from? _Of course, thank you so much!_ A carefully-curated outfit moodboard made by Lottie? _All items are going on the to-buy list!_ A list of conversation topics that are never to be brought up or even hinted toward? _You got it; won’t be touching those with a ten-foot pole!_

Surprisingly, the only thing she likes is Bobby’s flower choice.

“Tulips are a good shout,” she says. “A bit of a fuck-you to Henrik, too, since they’re considered a declaration of faithfulness.”

“Er, they are?” he begins to ask before she interjects… again.

“Depending on the colour, of course. I’d avoid pink and white, for sure—definitely not the message you’re trying to convey! Personally, I’d choose red or orange—”

“Okay,” Bobby agrees, already knowing he ordered a multi-colored bouquet. “Aye, right. You’re bang on.”

It’s another hour, two more cups of tea, and rejecting her offer to read his leaves before he’s finally able to convince her to leave.

Once he’s alone, he busies himself with menial tasks to put off the inevitable stress of overthinking. He doesn’t want to think about flowers for another second, let alone experience crippling self-doubt over the rest of his plan. Everything’s going to be fine. Getting Nicola to agree to a date at all was the worst part, and now all he has to do is show up.

Easy.

* * *

Not so easy.

Bobby spends all of Friday in a paralysed state of panic.

He calls the florist twice to confirm the delivery. He calls Chels to make sure Nicola’s schedule for Saturday has been cleared. He calls his mum because she’s the only one who can talk any kind of sense into him. He doesn’t bother calling his sister, knowing she’ll only clown him, but he does send her a picture of the outfit he’s planning to wear.

Two thumbs-up emojis later, he hangs it back up in his closet and spends too much time rummaging through a rarely-used closet for his garment steamer. A lot of work for a simple pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt, but even if it’s silly, he wants to get it right. Doesn’t want to daydream about the what-ifs anymore; wants to make them a reality.

When he’s finally able to calm his racing heart and fall asleep, he dreams about a life far into the future. He’s happy there, smiles and feels warm, _loved._ When he looks down, his toes are dug into white sand. Waves break against the shore. Oranges and pinks swirl in the distance as the sun sets, but he can still feel the heat prickling at his skin. It’s a scene he’s seen before in a photograph, panics as he begins to wonder if he’s intruding on a moment that’s not his.

But a hand slips into his, a gentle squeeze all he needs to know he’s right where he’s meant to be.

He wakes up late in the morning, a little past eleven. The sleep is barely rubbed out of his eyes when his phone vibrates from the nightstand. Dozens of texts of encouragement (mostly from Chelsea, who has emerged as his strongest ally—a fact he’s only slightly surprised by), a good luck text from his mum, and the most recent from Nicola.

A photo of the bouquet with five simple words: _“Thank you. I love them.”_

Stirling picks him up around six, another round of small talk shared between them as they make the drive to wherever Nicola’s staying this week. A small detour takes them through Mayfair, Bobby’s mind whirring at a million miles per hour at this really being the start of it all. He wouldn’t be on his way to a date with Nicola without that New Year’s Eve party just a few streets over.

It’s weird how life works, he thinks. The party in Mayfair. The last time he was chauffeured around by Stirling was when he was en route to writing another sad song, only a few weeks out from the catalyst of everything. He’s never really been the type to find joy in someone else’s misery, but he thanks the lord, his lucky stars, and everything else that Henrik fucked up.

“Big night?” Stirling asks, catching Bobby’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

Bobby feels his cheeks warm. “Aye, you could say that.”

The driver doesn’t respond, just offers him a kind smile. A few minutes pass in comfortable silence before he speaks again. “You know, I made a lot of these drives when her and Henrik were together.”

“Oh?” he replies, tone full of confusion.

“You meet as many people as I do and, eventually, you’re just able to tell these things.”

“What kind of things?”

Stirling laughs, the colours of the traffic lights reflected in the contours of his face. “If they’re genuine. If it’s going to work.” Bobby wants to ask what his verdict is—can feel the words at the tip of his tongue. “He completely forgot about their second date. I’d gone to pick him up and he wasn’t there. Turns out he was at his mate’s stag do in Essex.”

Bobby coughs. “He stood her up?”

“Aye, sure did. Even had the nerve to ask if I’d drive out there and get him. Didn’t seem to give much of a shit that I worked for Nicola and I wasn’t at his beck and call, he was just worried about a ride back to London.”

“Sounds about right,” Bobby sighs. “Never knew he was such a prick, but the past few months have truly been a learning experience.”

There’s a knowing look on Stirling’s face—the kind of ‘I told you so’ look a parent would give their child. “ _Anyway_. All that to say I think you can tell a lot about a person just by looking at their priorities.” Another beat of silence. “And that the flowers were a good shout.”

Bobby flushes again, eager to get out from under the chauffeur’s microscope. “Mate, how do you even know about the flowers?”

“Nicola told me about them before I left. Told me you’d sent them, and to go easy on you.”

“You interrogate all her dates?”

Stirling snorts. “God, no. I’d rather stick my head in an oven than talk to most of the people in this business. Not to mention there haven’t been many dates. Just you and… well, you know. I usually leave the interrogations up to Hope and Chelsea. They’re much scarier, I think.”

“Can’t imagine Chels interrogating anyone.”

“She’s the one with the sixth sense,” Stirling explains. “If she doesn’t find anything likeable about someone, they typically don’t come around again.”

Bobby hums an acknowledgement, unsure of what else to say. His nerves are shot, insides twisting painfully the closer they get to Nicola’s place. He doesn’t even know where they’re going, but he figures they must be getting close once his palms begin to sweat; must wipe them on his jeans fifty times in the span of ten minutes, and if Stirling notices, he’s too kind to mention it.

Another ten minutes goes by before they arrive at a massive estate Bobby’s been to before. The one outside the city, locked away behind high fences and a winding drive lined with bright flowers. Stirling stops at the gate, presses a button only to be greeted by a voice that sounds an awful lot like Jakub’s.

Bobby’s too nervous to think up more Binski-related puns. An absolute travesty.

Stirling drops him at the front door with nothing more than his cheerful demeanour and a sing-song _‘good luck!’_ Looking down at his outfit, Bobby straightens out his shirt, plucks up whatever courage he has left, and knocks.

 _No big deal_ , he tells himself. _It’s only the first day of the rest of your life._

* * *

It goes great.

Better than great, actually.

Fantastic. Outstanding. Glorious. Tremendous.

_Perfect._

They plan a simple first date: overindulgent takeaway, equally expensive alcohol that has sat unopened for far too long, shitty film playing in the background, and Bobby’s inability to stop talking. He sneaks Garfunkel bites of food when they both think Nicola isn’t looking. They abandon the film once they’re done eating, deciding to embark on a proper guided tour of the massive house. Bobby squeals when they reach a room with a lavish grand piano, Nicola insisting he play a song.

That, of course, turns into impromptu karaoke. Bobby sings so purposely over the top and off-key that they both have tears streaming down their faces by the midpoint of the second song.

Their second date goes much the same. Nicola spreads out a gingham blanket in her backyard and they share a bottle of wine and a joint. Bobby makes up bullshit constellations, gives them horrific names and backstories, and lets the sound of her infectious laughter lave at all his insecurities. He allows himself to find comfort in her, stability. And when his head feels too heavy to hold up, he lays back in the grass and tries to keep his heart in his chest when she does the same, delicate fingers searching out his in the dark.

He wants so badly to kiss her. Wants to crash their mouths together and kiss her breathless, but he feels it best to let her set the pace. Doesn’t want to rush things, make her uncomfortable just because he’s selfish. Still doesn’t know how she feels about him, but she doesn’t protest as he starts to break down her walls, so he takes it as a good sign.

On their third date, they cover each other in silly temporary tattoos and take too many selfies. Bobby snorts at how dumb he looks in the filters and asks her to send him some, immediately setting it as the background on his phone as soon as he’s home.

And if he gets butterflies when Nicola posts one to her Instagram story? Well, that’s his business.

 **LOVE IN THE AIR? Nicola Jordan posts selfie with cowriter Bobby McKenzie on Instagram** **  
**_By Emily Smith, Daily Mail Staff_ | 11 May 2020

He expects a panicked phone call from Hope. Damage control of some sort. A statement released by Nicola and her team denying anything’s going on between the two of them, but there’s only radio silence. She doesn’t say anything when her social media comments are flooded with demands for information, Bobby’s handles being tagged more in the span of a few days than the last few years.

The next time he sees her, they share a laugh at how many new followers he gets. They dance around the subject as long as they can until Bobby breaks and asks if she’s going to set the record straight.

It only takes four words to stop his heart.

“There’s nothing to correct.”

He’d been so good about not pushing, about going at her pace and following her cues. But, now that he knows where he’s at, that he has even the slightest chance of turning this into something substantial, he can’t help himself as he sucks in a breath, threads his fingers into her hair, and crashes his lips to hers.

God, he’s written so many stupid love songs about this exact feeling, of the world fading away and the earth disappearing from beneath his feet. The hammering of his heart in his chest, as if it’s trying to break out of his rib cage and latch onto her. The feeling of absolute peace that settles over him, the one that tells him he’s exactly where—and with whom—he’s meant to be.

His fireworks moment.

A dam breaks between them after that. He can’t get enough of her. Finds himself daydreaming about the feel of her lips against his, the way his own bear the faint taste of her lip balm after she pulls away. Finds himself tracing shapes against his thigh, fingers itching to touch her instead. Finds it impossible to concentrate when they’re in the same room together.

Doesn’t mind when she kisses him in the studio with a full audience. Doesn’t even wince at the sound of Chelsea’s piercing shriek. Doesn’t make himself smaller under Hope’s heavy, questioning gaze. Doesn’t roll his eyes at Lottie’s pointed, _“It’s about damn time.”_ Doesn’t catch Kassam’s small, barely-there smile.

Knows he’s the luckiest man alive the first time they’re intimate. Makes sure to take his time, savour every bit of her. Never lets her forget how beautiful she is, how much he adores her, how he’d do anything she asks of him. Studies her. Learns exactly what she likes, what makes her writhe, what makes her words breathy and jagged. Lets her take whatever she wants from him, tells her how much he loves it when she does. Wants nothing more in this life than the feeling of being so deeply connected with her.

But, truly, he’s happiest every time he wakes up beside her. Bathed in both the glow of her and the sunbeams streaming in through the windows. Knows his prayers have been answered every time he wakes up wrapped around her, face pressed into her hair, enveloped in her scent.

Laughs at how juvenile his feelings had been before. 

* * *

“It’s your birthday soon,” Chelsea says, shoving a forkful of lettuce in her mouth immediately after.

Lottie looks up from her phone, clearly alarmed. “Oh, fuck, it is! I almost forgot.” She sends him an apologetic glance, the corners of her mouth tugged downward in a frown. “Do you have any plans?”

“Nah,” Bobby says, hand waving in dismissal.

“None?” Lottie muses. “Nothing at all? Not even something small with Nic? Just the two of you? Maybe a little X-rated?”

Chelsea’s eyes widen and she struggles to swallow the bite of food in her mouth. “Lottie!” she chokes out. “That’s my boss!”

“So? She’s not mine,” the Aussie defends. “Plus, how can I _not_ take the piss out of this guy? He’s been walking around with permanent heart eyes and a stiffy ever since they started fuck—”

Bobby’s certain he’s going to die. Knows his face is red, posture rigid. Prays for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Lottie, please,” he croaks.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “But you two really should just spend your whole birthday—”

“Throwing a party!” Chelsea cuts in, cutting off Lottie with as stern a look as she can muster. “We can talk to Hope about using Lucas’s penthouse again and throw Bobby a nice party.” She turns to him, kind enough to ignore the embarrassing pink tint of his skin. “Ooh, maybe a pool party! Wouldn’t that be _so_ fun? I haven’t been to one of those since I was a kid! Oh, I am _so_ glad you have a summer birthday! What do you think, babes?”

Lottie snorts. “It’s an indoor pool, Chels. What does it matter if he has a summer birthday?” 

“Sounds good,” is about all he can muster. He wants to blame it on Lottie’s jabs, but he really knows it’s the thought of having to spend his entire birthday watching Nicola in a swimsuit that’s got him so bent out of shape.

Fuck. God help him.

As always, Chelsea manages to throw the perfect party. Lucas had agreed to rent out his penthouse for the evening, once again off on a business trip. Switzerland, this time, and he promises Bobby he’ll bring him back a nice gift basket of cheeses and chocolates. Knowing Lucas, the assortment will cost more than a year’s worth of rent, but he appreciates both gestures nonetheless.

Really, after the stress of the last five months, it just feels nice to be surrounded by his mates. No strangers, just the six of them—Chelsea, Lottie, Rocco, Kassam, Hope, and himself—lazing around. Half of the group float around the pool mindlessly, Chelsea having claimed the pink one shaped like a giant ice cream cone immediately. Kassam is perched behind the bar, refusing to get in the pool both because he doesn’t want to get his hair wet and because he “doesn’t trust” anyone else with the playlist, shooting a side-eyed glance at Rocco that only Bobby notices.

“Oi, Kaz! Do you have any Tame Impala on that playlist?” Rocco calls from the pool.

The producer’s face contorts into pure disgust. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Oh, mate, you should totally add ‘The Less I Know’—”

Kassam turns to Bobby with a disgruntled expression. “Fucking shoot me, bruv. Please.”

Bobby snorts, sticks up two finger guns and shoots at him with a high-pitched _pew pew_. “Thanks, mate,” Kassam says, his tone as flat as ever. “I owe you one.”

The only person missing is Nicola. She’d told him she’d be late. Hadn’t elaborated on _why_ , and all Hope had given him when he asked was a non-committal grunt. Logic would tell him it has something to do with his birthday gift, Nicola clearly not having listened when he told her not to get him anything.

 _“Being able to spend it with you is all I need,”_ he’d told her, heart on full display on his sleeve. She’d just smiled and booped him on the nose, saying his cheese was endearing but she’d always gotten him a gift and wasn’t about to stop now.

She also hadn’t shown him what she planned on wearing, teasing him that it was going to be a surprise. He’d seen her in bathing suits before, of course. You can’t be a proper celebrity if you don’t have at least one Instagram thirst trap of yourself on a yacht in scandalous swimwear, but this feels more intimate. Even if it’s not solely for him, it still feels like it is.

And as he hears someone start to descend the metal staircase, he immediately knows getting through this party is going to be just as difficult as he thought it’d be.

A birthday _gift_ , all right.

All eyes are immediately on him as everyone waits for his reaction. Nicola is stunning, yes—that’s common knowledge. Just a fact of life, so everyone’s more interested in Bobby as she saunters in, a sheer kimono draped over a stunning two-piece. Lottie’s giving him that look again, the one that screams _“are you sure you don’t want to spend the rest of your birthday doing X-rated things?”_ and it takes a lot of self-control not to give her the finger.

The only thoughts he can muster are X-rated, Lottie be damned. He’s always loved her in red, but he _really_ loves it now. Loves the way it contrasts against her skin, the way it harkens memories of her leaving red lip prints against the skin of his neck, the way the neckline nearly plunges all the way to her bellybutton, red sheer fabric covering just enough skin to not be as indecent as Bobby wishes it was.

“Wow,” he croaks, mouth gone completely dry at the sight of her. “I—wow.”

She smiles. “Just _wow_?” she teases, moving onto the tips of her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You’re, uh—I mean—” he stammers, pleading for his brain to regain functionality and actually _say something_. He gives her a desperate look. “Please help me out here.”

Instead of speaking, she just giggles and moves in to whisper a very gravely, very sultry, “Happy birthday, love,” into his ear. Between her voice and the bathing suit, he’s already sporting one of those semis Lottie keeps ribbing him about.

“Lass, please. It’s only been ten minutes and I’m already going to die. On my birthday, of all days.”

Nicola shrugs, squeezing his hand before she saunters off again in the direction of the bar. The wink she sends him over his shoulder is the final nail in his coffin, sending him to the corner to readjust his swim trunks with his back to everyone.

She’s definitely going to be the death of him.

The rest of the party is uneventful. Hope and Kassam manage to avoid the pool, only to be thrown in one after the other by Bobby, who uses his birthday as an excuse to not get ganged up on and murdered. Lottie convinces Chelsea to share a joint with her—which, unsurprisingly, turns out to be a terrible idea. Rocco gets a bit too tipsy and serenades Bobby with an acoustic rendition of “Happy Birthday To You,” much to Kassam’s dismay.

“I specifically made him a birthday mix,” he laments. “I _told_ you.”

Rocco just shrugs.

He sneaks kisses with Nicola whenever he can. Presses her against the side of the pool and thanks God when she wraps her legs around his waist. Pouts his lip in an exaggerated pout and makes smooching noises at her after he blows out the candles on his cake, grinning like mad when she rolls her eyes and gives in. Their friends pretend to be disgusted, of course, but that just makes him smile wider.

As he blows out the candles, he only has one wish: _Please don’t let this end. Please don’t take this away from me._

Later, after the party winds down and their friends are scattered around the penthouse, Nicola sidles up behind him and hugs him around the waist. Presses her cheek to his back and smiles when he straightens up and intertwines their fingers.

“Hello, lass,” he greets. “Doing all right?”

“’Course.” He can feel her smile against his skin, shudders when she presses a quick kiss to his shoulder blade. “I still have to give you your present.”

“Oi, I told you not to get me anything.”

He imagines her rolling her eyes. “And you _knew_ I wasn’t going to listen.”

He sighs, knowing she’s right, and turns to face her. Strands of wet curls still cling to her face, droplets rolling down her temples and across her freckled cheekbones. He’s never seen such a stunning person in his life, all his affection for her suddenly feeling overwhelming. Feels the rumblings of something deep in the pit of his stomach, and he swallows hard to try and temper a knowledge he’s had for a long time.

He wonders if she can tell. If she can see everything he feels for her as he stares down at her; if he looks as dumb and lovestruck as he feels.

Because he can see it in her, too, sometimes: the glances she steals when she’s sure he’s not looking, the fondness in her smile when he cracks a stupid joke just to make her laugh, the blissed-out look on her face every time they kiss.

He’s still not sure he’s deserving of her love—isn’t sure he ever will be—but he finds himself praying that whatever she feels for him reaches those depths.

Prays he’s not the only one so entirely consumed.

Prays he’s not the only one falling.

A warm breeze wraps around them, and all Bobby can think about is the last time he was on this balcony. Months ago, half out of his head and sharing a cigarette with Kassam, both commiserating about the state of things. January-Bobby would never have expected to be living June-Bobby’s life, and it’s this thought in particular that has him gripping Nicola’s hand just a little tighter, terrified she’ll drift away; still unable to shake the dread that one day she’ll wake up and realize what a fool she’s being and leave.

“Present time?”

Bobby huffs a laugh, trying his best to look far enough over his shoulder to see her without breaking his neck. “Fine, if you insist.”

She ducks back inside quickly, blink and you’d miss it, and returns with a neatly wrapped box. Small, lavender wrapping paper topped with a gold bow. It doesn’t make much noise when he shakes it, but Nicola squeals and playfully whacks him on the arm.

“What if it was breakable?”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “There’s no ‘fragile’ sticker on it.”

“What do I look like, the bloody Royal Mail?”

He smiles in lieu of a reply, popping each seam on the gift individually—a habit he developed due to his absolute hatred of opening gifts in front of people. “Christ, Nic, did you use enough Sellotape? It’s like Fort Knox trying to get in here.”

“That’s because you open gifts like an absolute coward. Just rip the paper!”

“No,” Bobby smirks, “I don’t think I will.”

It takes some time to get through the layers of tape, but eventually the wrapping paper is discarded and he finagles the top off the box. He peels back a sheet of tissue paper and his breath catches in his throat as he stares down at a salmon pink, leather writing journal with his initials embossed in the bottom-right corner. He barks a blubbery laugh as he notices the Montblanc pen tucked neatly next to the journal.

Nicola is gnawing at her bottom lip as she watches him, gauging his reaction. “Do you like it?”

He swallows quickly, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat. Feels a bit pathetic when he can’t; feels even more so when he also has to try blinking back tears. “That pen is nearly two-hundred pounds.”

She scoffs. “I knew you were going to say that.” When Bobby looks up, her smile is dazzling. “A wee birdy might’ve let it slip that you’ve been eyeing it forever.”

“Did they also mention I haven’t bought it because spending two-hundred pounds on a pen is ridiculous?”

He picks it up, notes the way it feels between his fingers. Smiles warmly when he sees his initials also engraved on it. “How’d you even know my middle initial?”

“Hope.”

“Aye, I should’ve known. She knows everything. It’s a bit terrifying.”

“She didn’t tell me what it is though, just that it starts with an A.”

“Ajani,” he answers. “It’s my dad’s name.”

She purses her lips. “Bobby Ajani McKenzie,” she says slowly, testing it out. “I like it. Suits you.”

“Yeah? My mum used to tell me it means ‘one who wins the struggle.’”

Her smile widens and all Bobby wants to do is bask in the light of it. Stay there until her warmth seeps into his bones. “Definitely suits you, then.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, gently placing the pen back in the box to pick up the journal. Feels the crossgrain of the leather beneath the pads of his fingers as he traces them across the cover. Inhales the new scent as he fans the blank pages.

“Figured you needed a new one,” Nicola says. There’s a hint of vulnerability in her voice, and Bobby immediately knows why. Can hear the unspoken bits clear as day. “You know, if…”

_If you’re going to be sticking around for a while._

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

They share an easy silence, staring into the distance as they watch the sun begin to set over London. Watch as it dips behind the Eye, as the sky morphs into the same pinks and oranges he’d seen that night in his dream before their first date.

Nicola breaks the quiet, looking over at Bobby with painfully soft eyes. “There is one rule, though.” Bobby raises his eyebrows, urging her to continue. “No more sad songs. That’s a journal for happy things only.”

“You got it,” he replies easily. “No more sad songs.”

Nicola hears it for exactly what it is: a promise.

* * *

Another studio day.

Kassam is in his usual spot, hunched over in front of his computer, screen full of files and equalizers Bobby couldn’t possibly begin to understand. Hope and Lottie are sat together on the couch, the manager talking animatedly as she shows off whatever new piece of jewelry Lucas had gotten her as a birthday gift. He doesn’t need to know much about jewelry to know it’d been expensive—he can see the glint of the stone when the sun hits it from the opposite side of the room. Chelsea’s nowhere to be found. Probably handling the lunch order. Rocco sits on a stool, headphones tuning out all the background noise as he re-strings his guitar.

And then there’s Nicola, legs tucked under her body as she sits in front of her piano. She presses down a key, looking to Kassam for feedback. Plays a small sequence and looks to him again.

“Sounds ace, Nic. I think you’re good to go.”

Bobby catches her eye as she looks over her shoulder. She nods her head toward the instrument and cocks an eyebrow. “Wanna do the honours?”

“Me?” Bobby asks, index finger pointed at himself.

“No, the wankstain behind you.” She rolls her eyes, laughing at his incredulity. “Yes, you. The chord sequence you played for me the other day.”

He swallows, digits suddenly numb with anxiety. Doesn’t matter how many songs he’s written both for and with her, she’s never asked him to actually _play_ on one of them.

“Shouldn’t have spilled all your deep, dark secrets if you didn’t want me to use them against you,” she teases. “Come on. If you hate it, we can bin it.”

“And give this guy more work to do?” Bobby retorts, thumb jerked in Kassam’s direction. “The bastard’s been on my ass for weeks to get this done.”

Laughing, Nicola flutters her eyelashes at the producer. “Can’t rush perfection, babe.”

Kassam groans. “Can you two shut up and get on with it already?”

“Aww, is someone upset because they’re bitter and alone?” she teases, earning her a well-deserved middle finger. Turning her attention back to Bobby, Nicola nods at the piano one more time. “Last chance.”

Bobby shrugs, already knowing he’d do whatever she asked of him. There’s absolutely no hope for him against her and pretending otherwise does nothing but make him look like a fool. “Fine,” he agrees. Fights off a face-splitting grin as Nicola squeals and wraps her arms around him, jumping up and down with excitement.

“You’re the best. Okay, I’m off—”

“Wait,” Bobby interjects. “What song are you even recording?”

Nicola and Kassam share a look before she offers Bobby a slow, knowing smile. “Oh, just something I wrote the other day.”

Then she’s gone, locking herself in the vocal booth before Bobby can ask any follow-up questions. Asking Kassam yields him zero results, so he just takes his place on the piano bench and waits for the producer to give everyone the all-clear.

A thumbs-up. And then there’s nothing but the sound the chords Bobby’s fingers are playing, the twang of Rocco’s guitar, the hum of the equipment, a click of Kassam’s mouse as he tweaks the equalizers. It’s a routine they’ve all gone through a million times before, the four of them working together seamlessly. Even Lottie and Hope sit in respectful silence, watching with bated breath—the way everyone does before Nicola starts singing. The anticipation of knowing the goosebumps are coming.

But no one is more affected than Bobby. His fingers move clumsily across the keys as she starts singing, her words reaching into his chest to grasp his heart.

 _Our secret moments in your crowded room_ _  
_ _They’ve got no idea about me and you_ _  
_ _There is an indentation in the shape of you_ _  
_ _Made your mark on me, a golden tattoo_

And he knows he’s fucking up, knows whatever the fuck he’s playing isn’t usable—knows Nicola knows it too as he dares a glance at her and sees her smiling at him. Tries to refocus his thoughts, tries to concentrate on anything that isn’t her and her words and this silly song she’s clearly written about _him,_ but it’s just as hopeless as trying to deny her.

 _Say my name and everything just stops_ _  
_ _I don’t want you like a best friend_ _  
_ _Only bought this dress so you could take it off_

This is how he’s going to die. This time he’s certain of it. Major cardiac arrest just weeks after his 27th birthday. His mum will be devastated, of course, but he doubts she’ll be surprised that Nicola Jordan is her son’s cause of death.

His body feels like it’s on fire and all he wants to do is hide. He can feel Lottie and Hope’s eyes burning into his back, probably looking between him and Nicola with slack jaws and gobsmacked expressions. He wonders why they’re surprised. They’d both known, had offered advice and cheered them on from the sidelines, but _fuck,_ this song—it’s something else. It _means_ something. Makes a statement that will eventually be broadcasted to the entire world.

 _Inescapable, I’m not even gonna try_ _  
_ _And if I get burned, at least we were electrified_ _  
_ _I’m spilling wine in the bathtub; you kiss my face and we’re both drunk_ _  
_ _Everyone thinks that they know us, but they know nothing about…_

Every word is _them_. Bobby and Nicola. The inside jokes. The quiet moments together—moments they stole from the chaos of the outside world, safe in their little bubble. Together. Always together, the distance unbearable ever since they found out how it felt to be the only two people left in the world. As if the universe had brought them together with a strand of gold string, just waiting for them to tie the knot.

 _Even in my worst times, you could see the best of me_ _  
_ _Flashback to my mistakes_ _  
_ _My rebounds, my earthquakes_ _  
_ _Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth of me_ _  
_ _And I woke up just in time_ _  
_ _Now I wake up by your side_ _  
_ _My one and only, my lifeline_

His throat feels tight and it’s a struggle just to breathe. All he can do is watch her. The slight furrow of her brow as she closes her eyes and sings. The way the muscles in her neck move. The way she shakes her head to get a stray strand of hair out of her eyes—the same ones that completely render breathing possible when they lock on him.

God, they’re so different now. Full of life again, of light.

_He’s in love with her._

And he knows now. So many things. That all of this was worth every second, that there could never have been anyone else, only her. The truth is so simple, as if someone told him that his name is Bobby and he’s from Scotland; that he lives in London and has too many black t-shirts.

It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t feel the same. He’ll wait as long it takes so long as it always feels like this. As long as he can always look up and meet her eye across a crowded room. As long as he can hear her voice sing such pretty, devastating words about him.

He’d walk through hell for her. Gladly, each time, without question.

* * *

September finds him jittery, feeling too big for his body, words threatening to spill out from his mouth at every opportunity.

They kiss in front of their friends. She’s recorded a sappy song or two about him. They sleep together and wake up together and find it almost impossible to be apart. They’re deep in the throes of early romance, a honeymoon period without there ever being a wedding, but Bobby _knows_. Fuck, does he know.

“All right, love?” Nicola asks, her voice thick from sleep.

Bobby nods, knows he probably looks off. He’s never the first one awake, especially at half-five in the morning, and his rigid posture and his hands folded across his abdomen give him away immediately. “Aye, lass. Go back to sleep.”

She wipes at her eyes before locking them on him. “What’s wrong?”

He tries to muster a smile but isn’t quite sure he’s managed it. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just in my head is all.”

Her soft laugh is nearly enough to ease his frayed nerves. She finds his folded hands under the sheets and pries them apart, intertwining their fingers instead. “Tell me all about it.”

Words bite at the back of his teeth again, threatening to spill out. He wants to tell her he’s in love with her, wants to make it official, wants to swallow his fear, but he also wants this to feel _new,_ as silly as it sounds. He doesn’t want whatever they have to feel like _just_ the relationship that came after her heartbreak. And, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s still a nagging doubt at the back of his mind that it’s too soon. How could she possibly be over Henrik’s infidelity in only seven months?

He hates that he feels this way. Hates he’s putting thoughts and feelings in her mouth instead of just asking her—so, yes, he knows he’s being irrational. Knows what they have is real, that he has to trust in it, in _her_ , but he’s so desperate to keep hold of it that maybe he’s gone a bit mental.

“ _Bobby_.”

He sucks in a deep breath and tries not to vomit. Tries to remember that he’s in her bed, in her stupidly massive house, holding her hand in the dark of the early morning. And then he lets it go.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet and far steadier than he thought it’d be. “I’m _in_ love with you.”

Hears her breath hitch—just barely, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out—and feels her go stiff. As quickly as her hand goes rigid in his, she’s squeezing it again, and then he feels her begin to shake beside him.

When he finally gathers the courage to look over, her eyes are crinkled in laughter, small giggles slipping through as she desperately tries to keep them quiet.

None of it makes sense. Why is she laughing? Christ, he’s such a fucking fool—

“Bobby,” she repeats, her voice so thick with affection he’s surprised she isn’t choking on it. “God, you nearly scared me out of my wits. I thought—”

“Why are you laughing?” he moans, only slightly upset she’s still holding his hands because he can’t hide his face behind them.

She moves quickly, rolling over to straddle his hips. “It’s nothing! I’m sorry, I just… I thought—” The jubilation quickly fades from her expression and she adds in a quiet whisper, “I thought you were, like, breaking up with me—”

His brows furrow in disbelief. “ _What_?”

“You were acting all weird! I woke up at half-five to find you just staring at the ceiling, not saying a bloody thing, looking like someone shat in your Cheerios. What was I meant to think?”

He nods, still trying to steady his heart rate. Can’t quite find the words he wants, so he stays quiet, just staring up at her. Admires the contours of her face, her effortless beauty—the way her vulnerability always shines through, makes him feel at home, makes him feel safe.

“I’m fucking terrified, Nic,” he admits. Finds the words hard to say and the relief minimal once he does, but he needs her to know. Doesn’t want to keep secrets.

“Of what?”

Feels the sting of tears in his eyes, angry at himself for crying. “I don’t know,” he tries. “Everything? Losing you? Rushing you? Not being enough?”

She’s on him before he can blink, peppering his face in kisses the way she’s done a million times before. Knows it makes him smile, gets him out of his own head just long enough to help him think clearly, loves trying to kiss each freckle even though it’s impossible. “God, you stupid, silly man,” she says, punctuating each word with another peck. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

“But—”

She presses a finger to his lips. “Shh. No more talking, it’s my turn.”

Readjusts so she’s sitting more comfortably, hands lacing with Bobby’s and he smiles at how clammy they are. Stares at her with pure admiration. “I’m scared, too. I… that last relationship really did a number on me, you know?” She chuckles ruefully. “But—god, Bobby, I don’t think I would’ve made it without you. My anchor. You kept me company when I felt more alone than I ever have in my life. Kept me laughing and smiling when it was forced with everyone else. You kept my head above water _so many times_ when I felt like I was going to drown under my sadness and anger.”

She pauses, frees her hand to brush tears off her cheeks. “You’ve never, _ever_ rushed me. You’ve been so patient, like you’ve always known exactly what I needed before I ever had a clue. You’ve always been my _friend_. You still are, and you’ve no idea how much it means to me that you’ve always been willing to put that first. I just… I feel safe with you. I feel warm and I feel appreciated and I felt loved before you ever said it.

“And I don’t want you to ever worry about what we have. I don’t… I don’t look at you and see him. I look at you and see a man who’s so devoted to me it makes me wonder if I’m deserving of it sometimes. I see a man who’s honest and kind and has shown up and gone to bat for me when I wasn’t sure I had the self-esteem to do it for myself. You’ve helped me find my strength again. My value. My purpose.

“I’m in love with you, Bobby. I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

What’s he supposed to say to that? Words aren’t enough, never will be when it comes to Nicola, so he grabs her face and kisses her until he’s breathless, until his brain goes blank and he forgets everything except the words she just spoke. Wants to carve them into his skin, his heart, and wear those scars for everyone to see. Wants to wear them proudly, wants to broadcast to the world what they have, that it’s real, and _fuck,_ Nicola Jordan feels this way about _him_ , can you believe it?

Because he can’t. God, he can’t believe it.

Wonders all the fucking time when he’s going to wake up.

Hopes he never does.

* * *

 _i brought my hell to you_   
Nicola Jordan

**Tracklisting:**

  1. sober
  2. without me
  3. my tears ricochet
  4. sober II (melodrama)
  5. liability
  6. i’m not mad
  7. hoax
  8. hard feelings/loveless
  9. champagne problems
  10. dress
  11. clean
  12. the 1



* * *

**‘I’m on the mend… finally’** **  
**Catching up with Nicola Jordan to discuss love, life, and her new album.

It’s late November when I finally meet up with Nicola Jordan during an unscheduled studio day—a last-minute session to make any final tweaks before the release of her fourth studio album, _i brought my hell to you_. It’s a release that’s been a long time coming for Jordan, who had scrapped her original plans for the album back in January, just weeks after news spread that her ex-fiancé, Henrik Bergström, had cheated on her.

“That was a really difficult call to make,” she admits, “but I’d written an album’s worth of love songs. There was no way in hell I was going to be able to release those after everything that happened.”

So, her team—consisting of producer Kassam Kadri, co-writer Bobby McKenzie, and session musician Rocco Katopodis—set back to work, spending the next nine months rewriting, reworking, and rearranging. The result, of course, is a twelve-song album that navigates the gamut of emotions she felt during that time.

**Can you talk a bit about the rewriting process?**

It was a real bastard [ _laughs_ ]. As much as they understood, I think everyone wanted to kill me when I said I wanted to scrap the original plans for the record. It was nearly complete at that point, so to just bin it and start over was heartbreaking, really, but also necessary.

The first thing Kaz and I did was go through the instrumentals on the old album and decide if we wanted to keep any of those—which we did! That made it easier once it came time to put music to the new songs, since we only had to write six or seven new instrumentals instead of ten. After that, we just buckled down and started writing, really. Bobby and I would have writing sessions or send snippets back and forth to each other, then we’d send Kassam and Rocco whatever we finished.

There were a few songs I wrote on my own near the end. The really personal ones, mostly. Just because I had a lot of emotions to work out and I was feeling really low and closed off for a good amount of time, so that made it difficult for Bobby to help. No one really knew how I was feeling, you know? So, a lot of the work at the end I did by myself. Once all that was done, we started on the actual production and mixing, mastering, all that.

**Can you talk me through some of the concepts on the album?**

I think most are fairly straightforward. There’s what you’d expect, i.e. the heartbreak, pain, anger, et cetera of going through such an unexpected and very public break up. There’s a bit of spite, too, a little bit of “fuck you” as you’d hope to find on any good break up album, but there’s also acceptance and hope as I deal with the negative emotions and begin to heal and move on.

“sober” and “sober II” are the only songs on my album not from my perspective. I wrote those from the point of view of the people at the New Year’s Eve party, mainly my ex and… the other party [ _laughs_ ]. Those were some of the first songs I wrote when we started over, and I think, more than anything, I just wanted to make sense of what’d happened. I never got answers, so I sort of rewrote history a bit on a few songs.

**“champagne problems” is another example of those songs, correct?**

It is, yeah. “champagne problems” is a song from an alternate universe where I never accepted the proposal. That song was very cathartic to write. We’re obviously not able to see the consequences of our choices in the moment, so it was nice to revisit that one and imagine making a different choice.

**What about “the 1”?**

That song’s interesting, I think, because it can work two ways. It works as a sequel of sorts to “champagne problems” but it also works in the present. In both situations I’m saying the same thing regardless of the choice I made: whether I turned down the proposal and got stuck in the what-ifs or if I accepted it, got cheated on and we broke up. I’m looking back at the relationship wondering how it would’ve been had that not been the case.

That was the last song I wrote for the album. I’d started and scrapped it so many times because something was missing each time, and it wasn’t until I was really able to heal and look back at the relationship with clear eyes that I was able to finish it. And, once I did, I was finally able to let go and move on.

**You alluded to the track position of that song being important. Can you elaborate on that?**

It’s both the last song on the album and, like I said, the last song I wrote. Also like I said, it was the song I couldn’t complete until I was in a good enough place to do so, but by being in that place, it left me quite vulnerable. I’d just wrote this song with frilly lyrics like “if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you” and “it would’ve been fun if you would’ve been the one.” I didn’t _want_ to look back on a relationship that caused me so much pain with rose-tinted glasses, so if you’re listening to the album on repeat, it goes straight back into “sober,” which is a song about the party. Just to remind myself, ‘Hey, this is _actually_ how that ended, remember? Don’t be an idiot.’

**What about the title of the album? How did you come up with that?**

I think it just speaks to the sum of the whole experience. I _was_ going through hell, and I asked a lot of the people around me during that time. I asked my team to help me rewrite an album. I was a miserable sack of shit which affected a lot of my relationships with the people closest to me, since I wasn’t generally a great person to be around. I was moody, I was hot and cold, I was out of my head a lot of the time. Misery loves company and all that, yeah? But I also managed to write this album that’s extremely personal and now I’m releasing it into the world, bringing a lot more people into that experience. ‘You’ is everyone. I’m putting all my pain into these songs and laying at the world’s feet, asking them to come on this journey with me that’s gonna be raw and painful—and that’s a lot to ask, again.

**You were still in the middle of rewriting the album when rumours began to spread that you’d gotten back together with your ex-fiancé. What was that like to deal with?**

Well, dealing with rumours at all is never pleasant, even if they’re true. It just serves as a reminder of how little privacy I have these days. But that one was quite nasty. It was the day after he’d shown up here at the studio to try and talk things over and it wasn’t a particularly nice conversation, but he’d been spotted leaving so everyone just ran with it. So, yeah, that was hard, especially because if they actually knew what’d gone on, they _definitely_ wouldn’t have assumed we were back together, but I think it was just the spark I needed to really begin to move on. That was the day I realized there truly wasn’t anything to salvage, even a friendship, and I wound up writing “hoax” and “liability” almost immediately after.

**You also seemed to have fallen in love again during the process of rewriting the album.**

What a shock, huh? [ _laughs_ ] I definitely didn’t expect it—almost wasn’t open to the idea of doing so, but I think life has a funny way of giving you exactly what you need when you need it most. I always tell Bobby he’s my anchor; the one person I know truly sees me and accepts me for all that I am. The person who, despite the odds stacked against him, made me believe in love again. Real, honest-to-god love.

As I begin to ask Jordan another question, the door to the studio opens and raucous laughter filters in ahead of Kassam Kadri and Bobby McKenzie. Kadri introduces himself to me with practiced kindness, while McKenzie pulls me into a hug before I can utter a word about who I am and what I’m doing.

He’s just as charming as he’s talked up to be. Every person he crosses paths with receives a warm smile and he elicits the same in return. He speaks fast, words jumbled together in his Scottish lilt as if he can’t get them out fast enough. Because, as I learn over the span of a few hours, he _can’t_. He remembers everything about everyone, asking about their families, their projects, their day.

But, before he does anything, he presses a quick kiss to the top of Nicola Jordan’s head.

And, even though she blushes as she meets my eye, she does something few people have seen her do publicly in the last ten months:

_She smiles._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. <3
> 
> As always, all thoughts/comments/concerned are appreciated and welcome!
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me here or on [Tumblr](https://americangrunge.tumblr.com).


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